


in every heart there is a room

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: Bathtub Sex, F/F, vacation fic, woah it's another fic dump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-05-05 01:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14606190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: A return to the world of one-shot fics about Bernie and Serena, all posted here, sporadically and with no rhyme or reason.





	1. we met as soulmates

**Author's Note:**

> you can assume every fic in this collection will have "a thank you to jess" at the beginning. this one was written purely in a gchat window as a way to pass the time. unedited.

"How did you do this again?" Serena asks, standing in the kitchen, her hair in fluffy disarray, her bathrobe hastily tied around her waist, her hand on her hip. 

Bernie feels sheepish, sitting in a spindly chair by the kitchen table, holding her palms up, scraped to bits, her knee and elbow in no better shape. "Running," she says.

"The last time I checked, handstands weren't a requirement of running," Serena says, wetting a paper towel and gently dabbing at Bernie's tender palms.

Bernie winces a little as the frayed skin is pulled, as the blood gets wiped away. She watches as Serena crouches, her head bowed as she works at picking gravel from Bernie's open wound.

"I might have fallen."

Serena looks up, humor in her eyes. "Might have? Looks like the ground came up to meet you." She's got a little first aid kit, opens up an alcohol wipe and Bernie tenses, ready for the sting. 

Serena is careful, tender, the wonderful bedside manner she's known for coming out in spades. "It was dark," Bernie says. "I didn't see the crack in the sidewalk." Serena just hums an assent as she continues, her fingers reassuring, strong, her grip on Bernie gentle but firm. 

"Maybe I'll get you a headlamp for your birthday," she says after a minute, opening another alcohol wipe, tending to Bernie's elbow, a longer gash. 

She kisses each of Bernie's palms, just like a mother to a child. Or, Bernie muses, like a woman to her lover, who very much will be put out by those hands being out of commission for a few days.

Serena finds gauze, tape, and gently wraps Bernie's hands, no band-aid able to cover the wide scrapes at the base of her palms. 

It looks worse than it is, and mostly Bernie just feels silly, but she feels better, the stinging has abated.

Serena bandages her knee, finds another piece of gauze and tape for her elbow. 

"No long sleeves today, Major," she says. "Lucky it's been unseasonably warm." Serena pats Bernie's good knee as she stands properly, busses her face against Bernie's, her lips just brushing her temple.

Serena helps Bernie get dressed, helps her fasten the clasp of her bra, too hard to managed with bandaged, sore hands. Bernie feels like a child when she raises her arms, lets Serena pull the shirt down over her head. But then Serena leans in, kisses Bernie, slides her tongue right into her mouth. 

"I'm glad you weren't hurt worse," she says when she pulls away, their faces close, morning breath still clinging to her, but Bernie can't find it in her mind.

Bernie goes to the bathroom, finds a bit of a struggle with the toilet paper, with her toothbrush, but doesn't ask for help there, has some pride she'd like to maintain. 

Serena's dressed by the time Bernie emerges, is running a hand through her hair, the grey strands that Bernie loves so much slipping through her fingers. 

"All right?" she asks, and Bernie nods, slides into an extra pair of scrub bottoms she'd brought home from the hospital by accident a million years ago, back when trauma unit blue was still a color Holby provided.

Serena drives them to work, keeps her mouth shut as Bernie gingerly lowers herself into the car, finds a way to bend her leg, to arrange her arms. 

Bernie is sidelined and she hates it, but she can't deny that she can't hold a scalpel, can't tie off stitches, thread. She sits in the shared office, tapping her foot, shaking her good leg restlessly as she signs off on paperwork, goes through charts.

She finds a nurse who hasn't been following medicine procedures, her sloppy signature appearing on a few patient forms, sends an email to Serena, to Fletch, it's out of her hands to get it sorted.

Serena brings them lunch, sandwiches from Pulses, and coffees in a little tray. She pulls her chair around so her knees can bump against Bernie's, and Bernie can reach out and touch her shoulder, wipe a crumb from her lip. 

"Why don't you observe Morven today?" Serena asks, as if she can sense that Bernie's going stir crazy, that she's bouncing off the walls. "She could use an expert opinion in there, and just because your hands are no good doesn't mean we can't use your brain."

It's a gift, handed to Bernie in a sparkling package with beautiful brown eyes. She can't stop the smile spreading across her face as she nods, almost bouncing in her chair.

The surgery is a success, makes Bernie feel a rush of excitement, of doing something, the reason she likes the profession in the first place. What's the point of being stuck in a hospital if she can't help people.

Serena's waiting outside the locker room for Bernie, a chart in her hand, and a happy look in her eyes. "Good surgery?" she asks, and Bernie nods, bumps their shoulders together as they walk back to AAU. 

There is much that keeps her busy, interested, for the rest of the day. She watches Serena bustle around, tending to patients, always using that same efficient but caring manner that Bernie finds so comforting. 

She puts a hand on a shoulder, squeezes fingers, smiles, knows what each patient seems to need. Bernie's envious of that, was never worried about how she made patients feel, just whether or not she could save them.

Serena inspires her, makes her want to be better.

When Serena's ready to leave, touching base with a patient one final time before they go home for the night, Bernie greets her with a kiss, a smile, wishes there was a way she could make sure Serena knows, all the time, how happy she makes her. They tangle their fingers as they walk to the car, Bernie desperately wishing to hold hands properly, not sure she can quite manage it yet, raw and tender palms still stinging with even subtle movements.

Serena suggests a bath when they get home, starts the water running. Bernie loves a good bath, always has, something that was such a foreign idea in the desert, where water was scarce and not to be wasted on things like a decadent soak.

Serena's dimmed the lights, lit a candle, and the air smells sweet and warm, and Bernie feels enveloped in kindness, in Serena's kindness towards her.

Serena gets in first, lets Bernie settle against her, the water sloshing gently.

Bernie can't help the hiss that escapes her as the warm water hits her scabbed knee, elbow, keeps her hands above, resting on the porcelain edge.

Bernie lets her head loll back against Serena's shoulder, the steam from the water wafting around them, the floral scent of the candle tickling her nose. She breathes in deeply, closes her eyes, and tries to relax herself, to ease into a state of bliss. 

Serena's arms come around Bernie's middle, her legs overlapping Bernie's, and Bernie feels encased, enfolded, enveloped. She's never felt so safe, so cared for. 

She smiles, faintly, nuzzles against Serena's cheek, pressing her lips to the corner of Serena's mouth, can feel the smile on Serena's face as well. 

And just as she thinks she might be able to fall asleep, one of Serena's hands begins a slow circle of Bernie's breast, moving ever closer to her nipple, and she can feel them hardening in anticipation. 

Serena's other hand begins a slow circle of another kind, around Bernie's navel, moving toward her thighs, just starting to toy with the coarse hair there, her nails ever so slightly scraping at the sensitive flesh.

Bernie wants to clench her fists, feels her whole body tense, but instead flexes her hands, avoids touching her scabs, in making anything worse. She hears Serena's chuckle, feels desire shoot right to her belly, low and deep, feels it circle around, settle just at the spot where she most wants Serena's fingers. 

Serena's hands continue their planned and focused assault, and Serena, ever talented at multi-tasking, nudges Bernie's face with her nose, nips at her earlobe, uses her tongue where she can reach, and Bernie can't help the moan as she feels teeth grazing the helix of her ear.

It feels almost like too much, the hand between her thighs, the fingers on her nipple, the tongue at her ear, but it's also not enough, and Bernie bucks her hips slightly, wanting more, encouraging more. 

Serena laughs again, low and throaty, the water splashing slightly.

Bernie can feel the vibrations at her back and it heightens everything all the more.

Finally, _finally_ , Serena's hand delves between the thatch of curls, and Bernie groans at the feeling of three fingers shoving their way in, expanding her, filling her, sudden and needed. 

She feels almost desperate, wants to cling to something, but holds herself as still as she can as Serena begins to move her hand, to find a rhythm, the bathwater making waves in tandem.

Her fingers crook, quirk, twist, her thumb coming up, brushing her clit, and Bernie grunts involuntarily, the sensation lovely and painful and beautiful and it's all she wants forever and ever.

Serena bites down on Bernie's earlobe as she pinches Bernie's nipple and scrapes her thumbnail against Bernie's heated flesh. The combination of pleasure with the exquisite pain is what sends her over the edge, makes a long throaty moan escape from her lips, makes her eyes slam shut.

And Serena keeps going, continues the rhythm between Bernie's thighs, harder, faster, stronger, changing tempo every few seconds, pulling Bernie back to the edge quickly, keeping her there, and Bernie feels like she's sweating, like she's just been for a run, feels like panting.

She turns her head, presses her lips against Serena's cheek, lets her soft skin swallow the groan that wants to escape again. Serena slows, not stopping completely, just letting Bernie calm before removing her fingers completely. 

She cups Bernie's breast one last time, rubs her thumb along the nipple, dusky pink, erect, a small benediction, then lets her hand drop to Bernie's navel, content to just hold her close.

"Did that make up for today?" she murmurs softly in Bernie's ear. "Relieve your tension?" 

Bernie doesn't know that she can find words yet, just nods, content to keep her face pressed against Serena, content to feel their bodies pressed together, skin to skin.

She breathes in the scent of the floral candle again, finds some sort of center. 

"You'll get yours in a few days," she promises. "I owe you for that."

"We're not keeping score, darling. I got just as much out of it." 

They sit in the tub for only a little longer, the water going tepid, the candle melting. 

Serena helps Bernie into a bathrobe, nothing on underneath it, ties the rope around her waist and pushes her towards the bed. 

She takes her time dressing, walking around naked, Bernie tracking her with her eyes, pulling her in for a kiss as soon as she slides into bed. 

"Thank you," she whispers against Serena's lips, serious and sure. "I love you." Serena just smiles, knows she doesn't have to say it back, and kisses Bernie right back.

Bernie waits until Serena looks settled against the pillows and presses their lips together again, kisses her and kisses her, makes Serena breathless, likes the flush that fills her cheeks, the way her eyes dance. 

Serena's not wearing much in the way of clothing, just an old t-shirt, a pair of pants, and Bernie is able to shove the shirt aside, push it up, out of her way. 

She kisses Serena's neck, her hands clumsy on Serena's chest, not as focused, not as intense as she would like, as she would prefer, but she's always been good with her mouth, always trusted her lips, her tongue, to get the job done. 

The shirt bunched above Serena's breasts, Bernie licks a circle around one nipple, then the other, the dusky pink vivid against her pale skin. 

Serena's skin is beautiful, Bernie can never get over it, so smooth, creamy, luscious, and Bernie could taste it all day, forever.

She mouths one breast while using her thumb on the other, making circles with her tongue, mirroring the movement. She uses her teeth, her nails, pinches and nips, hears a small yelp, but feels Serena's reaction, the implied request to continue.

She circles Serena's navel with her tongue, licks a trail right down to the apex of Serena's thighs, nips at the soft flesh there, makes little marks with her teeth, sees them purple quickly, uses her tongue to lave the spots, hears a murmur of pleasure above her. 

Her hands stay on Serena's hips, not as useful as she'd like, but she makes up for it as she presses her mouth against Serena, nose against Serena's clit, tongue reaching up to lick, ever so lightly, so softly and she can feel Serena arch her back up against the mattress.

She pushes toward Bernie, wants to increase the contact, and Bernie smiles, slow and sweet, against Serena's warm, wet heat. And licks right into her, lapping up the taste. 

She still likes to spell out words, though she's long past the need for that technique. She spells out splenic artery, writes appendectomy, twirls her tongue into phlebotomy, long words she likes to roll around in her mouth when she says them aloud, flowery words that make Serena squirm when they're pressed inside of her. 

She can just see, through the haze of Serena's coarse hair, through the slice of her fringe, that Serena's clenching her fists in the sheets, pulling them up, stopping herself from rutting into Bernie's face.

But that's what Bernie wants, that's what she'd love most. She bats at Serena's hands with one of her own, then the other, and Serena moves her fingers into Bernie's hair, threading into the silken strands, pushing her face deeper, her tongue in more strongly. 

Bernie tastes it all, licks it all up, can't stop, uses her teeth against Serena's clit, hears a grunt, feels the slight rush that means Serena's coming, tastes that musky liquid that comes with it, licks her lips as she pulls away. 

"Christ, you don't even need your hands, do you?" Serena says, head hitting her pillow as she rolls onto her side, careful to wait until Bernie's moved aside. 

"Not in this," Bernie smirks, fishing for the pants Serena kicked off earlier, a move Bernie missed completely, when she was busy kissing the breath from Serena's body. Always multitasking, always efficient that one.

Serena pulls Bernie in for another kiss, careful of her injured hands, her elbow, her knee, still manages to fit their bodies together. Bernie knows she loves to taste herself, to savor the way she mixes with the taste of Bernie's mouth. 

Bernie could kiss Serena forever, thinks she could fall asleep like this, tired from being in pain all day, from the warmth of the bath. She wants to fall asleep pressed against the woman she loves, mouths close, bodies together. 

Serena seems to feel the same way, fits her head against Bernie's collarbone, starts to draw shapes in the low vee provided by the bathrobe, Bernie's skin still warm, Serena's fingers nimble, agile, though she's not working towards any goal just now, simply thrilling in the touch, in feeling Bernie's skin under her hands.

Bernie hums. "I don't think I'll go running tomorrow," she says, feels the rumble of Serena's acquiescence against her chest. 

"Means we get to sleep in," she murmurs, her voice thick, her words slurred.

Bernie lets her eyes close, tucks her chin against Serena's scalp, breathes in the scent of her hair, the floral candle still wafting through the room, though it's long since been blown out. 

The day started a million years ago, with clumsiness and blood and pain, but it's ended now, with softness and sweetness and all that is good in Bernie's life.

She presses a kiss to Serena's head, her mouth still in those gray strands when she falls asleep.


	2. pina coladas and getting caught in the rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> moved over from tumblr - bernie and serena go on an almost mandatory vacation.

Abigail asks Serena to take a vacation. She's polite about it, but firm. "With Bernie about, all you two do is make doe eyes at each other, and it's all very romantic, but it's hurting your productivity. Take a week, reacquaint yourselves with each other, and come back with your heads on straight."

"As it were," Serena says, with a quirk of her lips, and Abby smiles right back.

*

"A vacation," Bernie says, the words coming out slowly. 

"Yes. A vacation. As in the two of us, and no responsibilities." Serena rests her chin against Bernie's shoulder, resists the urge to flutter her eyelashes.

"But I'm only just back. Seems silly to take off so soon." Bernie leans her head just so, lightly touches Serena's scalp with her own.

"It's not...not quite optional, I'm afraid. I'll save you from Abigail's exact words, but safe to say, we're off for the week and might as well make the best of it."

Bernie huffs softly, a sound that can mean anything from disgruntledness to agreement, but she says no more.

"I was thinking we could go someplace warm," Serena says, her voice soft, her hand sliding against Bernie's abdomen, her fingers slipping through the holes between the buttons. 

She loosens the buttons deftly, her hand working efficiently, moving towards Bernie's trousers. "You, me. The sun. Sand." Her lips are on Bernie's ear, her teeth just scraping against the lobe.

Bernie lets out of soft groan, Serena's hands now below the waistband of her pants and Serena can already feel the warm, wet heat. 

"Laying out on the beach," she murmurs, sliding a leg over Bernie's lap, her hips pushing her hand more firmly against Bernie, a grunt escaping her lips.

Straddling Bernie now, Serena kisses her on the lips, full, firm, pressure. "You in a swimsuit, me in a swimsuit. Almost nothing between our bodies."

She knows the power of her voice, low and husky, and she knows how Bernie likes it.

"Ocean waves can cover a multitude of sins," she says, rocking her hips against Bernie, a rolling motion. Her fingers find their target, slip inside Bernie, coated in wetness, covered in want.

She stops talking now, focused on her task, just moving her hand, her legs, squeezing with her thighs, and Bernie is pliant, reactive, breathy. 

When she comes, she pushes her moan against Serena's lips, lets it get swallowed up.

"I didn't need convincing," she says, when her breath comes back. "Anywhere with you...it's enough for me."

Serena flushes, from desire, from pleasure, from happiness.

She kisses Bernie again, makes as if to slide from her lap, but Bernie's hands on her hips hold her in place. "I mean it," she says seriously. "I'd go anywhere with you."

"Message received, Ms. Wolfe," Serena says. "Lucky for us both, right now 'anywhere' means a beach in the south of France."

*

And so that's how they end up in a swanky hotel with a view that takes Serena's breath away, just a beautiful expanse of sky and sea, a light breeze ruffling the curtains that makes everything smell like the beach in the most wonderful of ways. The scent of vacation.

They don't even make it to the beach on their first evening. 

Serena finds herself pushed down into the soft bed, the duvet pillowing up around her, Bernie's hands on her wrists, holding them still, holding them steady. Completely at Bernie's mercy, Serena can't help the thrill that runs through her, makes her toes curl, in every sense of the word. 

The sun is setting outside the window, the room cast in a dusky glow, and Serena's body arches into Bernie's touch, can't help but watch in awe as Bernie rides her thigh, her hand cupping Serena, her fingers strong, purposeful, while her other hand still holds Serena's arms up high.

She feels the strain in her shoulders as her hips lift, anxious, greedy for Bernie's touch.

When Bernie finally lets go of Serena's wrists, her hand comes to toy with Serena's breasts, her mouth on one nipple, her fingers on the other.

Serena doesn't move her arms, doesn't think she can, stuck to the bed, limp with pleasure, and she hasn't even come yet. Bernie's hands caress her sides, leaving her sex open, unattended to, and Serena moans softly, squirms, wants desperately to be touched.

She gets her wish when Bernie bends and places her mouth _exactly_ where Serena wants it most. Her tongue is nimble, flicking up against Serena's clit, beating out a little rhythm. 

"God," she breathes, because she doesn't think she'll ever get tired of this, of the feeling of Bernie's mouth against her. 

And then Bernie's tongue delves in deeper, moves inside Serena, licks her fully, and Serena's eyes slam shut at the sensation. One hand still on her breast, the other joins her mouth, and Bernie creates a back and forth between her tongue and fingers that makes Serena fist the duvet in her fingers, makes her writhe against the sheets, makes her moan fill the air of their room.

"I suppose we can't spend the entire week doing that," she says when she's found her words again.

"Mmm," Bernie hums against Serena's thigh. "We could. Vacation can mean all sorts of things."

She kisses Serena's thigh, light and gentle, kisses the other one, kisses her navel, continues to move up Serena's body until she's kissing her mouth, and the taste of Bernie mixed with her own musk is always a heady combination Serena finds almost luxurious in it's filthy decadence.

Serena doesn’t bother to dress herself, doesn’t even give her clothes a second thought, strewn about the bedroom, Bernie unable to keep her hands to herself from the minute the door closed behind them.

Instead she works the buttons of Bernie’s plaid shirt, slides it from her shoulders, not an attempted seduction, just the careful revelation of her partner’s skin.

She loves Bernie’s skin, always cool to the touch, but so sensitive. The hairs on her arms raise up as Serena’s hands pass by, Bernie shudders slightly at the touch, her cheeks pink even under the tan from her time in Africa.

When their bodies press together, bare skin to bare skin, Serena feels like she will never, ever get used to this, can’t imagine anything in the world better than this, can’t believe how long she went without it

She kisses Bernie, always marveling at how they fit together. Being with Edward disabused her of the idea of soulmates; she was comfortable with him, safe enough, it seemed that it would _be enough_.

But with Bernie, Serena has started to think perhaps people are made for each other, that maybe she was made for Bernie and Bernie for her, can’t imagine any other person driving her crazy, fulfilling her, understanding her, fitting against her, the way Bernie does.

They don’t slide together like perfect tiles on a bathroom floor, they nestle like puzzle pieces, the other’s strengths filling in where the other is deficient.

Serena almost laughs. She can’t help but wax poetic when Bernie’s mouth is on hers, her thoughts spiraling out, tethered only to the earth through her connection with Bernie.

She slips her tongue into Bernie’s mouth, licks around, tangles their tongues together. Her hands rest on Bernie’s bare shoulders, her fingers warm, and she squeezes the muscles there, rubs up and down slightly.

Bernie hums into Serena’s mouth, pushes closer, no space between them, not even a sliver, a fine sheen of sweat developing on her brow, from her pores, and when Serena pulls away, she swipes at the salty beads with her tongue, a lascivious smile on her face

Their hands bump as they move towards each other’s thighs, Serena batting Bernie’s away. “You’ve had your turn,” she says with a smile, her fingers finding their goal, and Bernie laughs, leaning forward against Serena’s shoulder, only pausing for a moment, adjusting slightly as Serena slides two fingers in, then a third.

They create a rhythm, a give and take, Serena sliding her hands against Bernie, pushing back inside with a little force, making sure her thumb hits at just the right angle, never in a consistent pattern, leaving Bernie on edge, gasping a bit, always a groan when she connects. 

Serena watches the play of emotions on Bernie's face, watches the serene look that usually covers her features turn into concentration as she tries to keep control, watches her cheeks flush, her pupils dilate, her irises go dark, looking wanton, looking wild, and it's enough that Serena loses the rhythm a bit, her hand moving faster, faster, and then Bernie comes, collapses against Serena's chest, her bare skin sticking slightly to Serena's, sweet sweat, and Serena just smiles into Bernie's hair. 

She lets them fall against the bed, their bodies collapsing into the rumpled sheets, her arm cradling Bernie against her. 

Watching Bernie's face, watching her eyes moving, soft and dark, Serena slides her hand, still wet with Bernie, between her own legs, her eyes never leaving Bernie's as she brings herself to the edge.

She leans into kiss Bernie as she lets herself come, letting Bernie's mouth swallow her shout, then settles against Bernie, boneless, sated, content. She hears Bernie murmur something, thinks it might be something like 'I love you," and just hums her pleasure against Bernie's bare skin.

*

When Serena wakes up, the sun is in the sky, their room bright just from daylight. She's still pressed against Bernie, nothing between their bodies. It came as a surprise, at first, that Bernie Wolfe should be a cuddler, that she likes to be held, likes to stay close, so aloof in her daily life. When she said something to Bernie about it, the only response she got was a gruff, "I like to be near you."

She nuzzles against Bernie's hair, places a kiss right above her hear, whispers, "Good morning," so softly it might just be the wind, but Bernie stirs all the same, life coming into her limbs, her face adjusting, her eyes, always so gentle when they open and see Serena's face looking over her. “Good morning, darling,” she says again, leans to place a kiss on Bernie’s lips, perfectly parted, morning breath be damned. 

Bernie seems loathe to let Serena put any further space between them, pliable from sleep, her lanky arms coming around Serena’s shoulders, holding her close. They don’t often get lazy mornings together, to explore each other in the hazy light of dawn. Their bodies slide together like sand across a beach, and Serena hears a roaring in her ears, from the ocean or their passion, she isn’t sure. 

They fall asleep again, a mid-morning nap, a second sleep, a delicacy of vacation. Serena thinks she never wants to put clothes on again, loves the feeling of cool sheets against her sex-heated skin, the salty breeze coming in through the window. She is lulled by the sound of Bernie’s breathing, soft exhalations that comfort her, reassure her, and her eyes drift shut, her body arced towards Bernie, an inherent pull that neither can deny. 

When they finally emerge from the quiet cocoon they’ve made, it’s to make another bed, this time on the beach. Serena pulls on her swimsuit, plain and black, cut low enough in the front that she can appreciate Bernie’s gaze. She wraps a leopard print sarong around her waist, slides into a pair of flip-flops, her bright red, manicured toes wiggling against the black foam shoes. And there’s a hat. 

“Of course there’s a hat,” Bernie says from where she’s lounging on the bed in her demure two-piece, looking for all the world like she’s just wearing a sports bra and shorts that are fitted to her body like a glove. Serena thinks she looks like some sort of nordic beach volleyball player, would pay money to see her on a court. 

She makes a face at Bernie, scrunches up her nose, and adjusts the brim of the hat, large and round, protecting her face from the sun. She’ll admit it’s big, but she rather likes the look of it, when all is said and done, thinks she looks a bit posh. But it makes it hard to kiss Bernie and she has to push it back on her hair to lean forward to press her lips to the sharp line of Bernie’s jaw. 

Bernie tilts her head, feigns disinterest as she continues to peruse the magazine Serena bought at the train station, all celebrity gossip and royal rumors. Serena continues to kiss her, moving around her face, her neck, her collarbone, loving the access a swimsuit allows, the swaths of skin that beckon her mouth. 

It’s only when she gets Bernie laughing, when Bernie finally drops the magazine, Serena tickling against her neck, that Serena kisses her mouth, the glorious and beautiful awkwardness of smiling lips meeting smiling lips. 

“Come on now, Wolfe. Best get going now or we’ll never leave,” Serena says, moving quickly out of Bernie’s reach, her hungry arms always willing, always reaching, to pull Serena back to the bed. 

“Remind me the benefits of leaving the room?” she says, but stands dutifully, grabs her sunglasses from the small desk in the corner of their hotel room, throws a towel over her arm. “Ready when you are.”

Serena rolls her eyes, picks up the tote bag she’s packed, books and sunscreen and towels. She’s rented chairs for them, an umbrella too. “Always the light packer,” she says, gesturing Bernie to leave the room first, sliding the roomkey into her bag as the door snicks shut behind them. 

“Keeps me portable,” Bernie says, bumping against Serena’s shoulder, “all the easier for you to take me around with you.” Serena laughs at that, a throaty chuckle, and finds a sense of wonder in just how _happy_ Bernie makes her. 

*

The beach isn’t overly crowded, comes from visiting in the off-season, when it’s still warm enough, the sun still shines, but families with children aren’t vacationing, people aren’t oriented towards vacation. 

Serena finds their chairs easily, dug into the sand, an umbrella shading them. She drapes her towel across the back of the chair, digs into her bag for sunscreen and holds it out to Bernie with an expectant look on her face.

“Yes, Ms. Campbell?” Bernie says when she looks up to meet Serena’s gaze. 

“Get my back?” she asks, fluttering her eyelashes, twisting slightly in the chair, giving Bernie a better angle. Bernie has different ideas, though, moving to settle behind Serena on the chair, moving her forward, her thighs pressing against Serena’s hips, their skin already sweaty, already warm, and Serena has to stop herself from craning up for a kiss. 

Instead she closes her eyes as Bernie’s firm fingers begin to rub lotion around her back, smooth gentle circles, making sure it’s all rubbed in. She punctuates her movements with soft kisses to Serena’s skin, and Serena knows her lips are touching all the scars left behind by Adrienne, knows that there’s a part of Bernie that will always regret not being there for Serena at such a difficult time.

“I wouldn’t have known what to do with you then, dear heart,” Serena always tells Bernie, knows it isn’t enough to assuage the worry, but it at least keeps it at bay. 

Bernie’s hands are competent, strong, her fingers thin but wiry, and Serena would let her rub at her back all day if she could. Her fingers slip underneath the straps of Serena’s swimsuit, finding the soft, pale, sensitive skin, making Serena twitch slightly under her ministrations. 

“Careful,” Bernie cautions, her mouth altogether too close to Serena’s ear, and then her hands move down to Serena’s thighs, more sunscreen on her palms, flat against her skin, pushing it in, and Serena can’t help but lean back against Bernie, to revel in this, to be swallowed up into feeling. 

When Bernie finishes, after what feels like an eternity, after what feels like just a moment, she pats Serena’s thighs with no small amount of affection. “Good to go,” she says, resting her chin against Serena’s shoulder. “Now, is it a race to the water, or are you going to stay up here alone?”

Serena touches her head to Bernie’s, hands finding hers, slowly lifting them from her legs, warm from the sun, warm from Bernie’s touch. “Mmm,” she hums quietly, then lets Bernie’s hands go and pushes herself up from the chair in a fluid motion, fast enough that Bernie isn’t quite able to react. “Last one in buys dinner,” she crows, calling over her shoulder as she makes her way to the water, to the waves lapping at the sand, her barefeet padding at the ground, spraying up the brownish-yellow motes as she goes. 

Bernie is a runner, Serena knows this, knows that she will be the one putting down her credit card wherever they eat, but oh, does she enjoy watching Bernie lope past her, blonde hair waving in the wind of her own making, her steady strides, her long legs, her tanned skin. She slows to watch Bernie storm into the water, going in up to her knees before she stops to turn around, hand shielding her eyes, looking back up at Serena. 

Serena walks the rest of the way, saunters, really, and can see Bernie’s mouth fall open slightly as she moves, enjoys the way Bernie watches the movement of her hips, has never felt less self-conscious than when Bernie’s staring at her, looking at her like she’s the most beautiful thing in the world. 

When she reaches Bernie, she can’t stop herself from kissing her, pressing their lips together, holding her close, the water lapping at their knees. They move deeper into the water, walking close, just as close as they walk together down the halls of Holby, just as close as they are in every aspect of their lives. 

The waves wash against Serena’s back, buffeting against her, and she finds the motion soothing, calming, the water sliding along her skin. She submerges herself when the water is higher, enjoys the way she feels limber in the ocean, long and lithe, like some sort of mermaid. She kicks her legs, propels herself forward, can feel Bernie moving around her. She finds Bernie’s leg, reaches out to touch her ankle, light as a triggerfish. 

When she emerges, she shakes her head, her hair scattering drops, landing on her shoulders, on Bernie, her skin so pale in normal circumstances, made paler by the water. Serena swims a circle around Bernie, laying on her back, eddying the water around them with her feet. 

“I love this,” she says, slowing, standing with her feet on top of Bernie’s, her toes pressing against the tops of Bernie’s. “I love you.” She leans in and kisses Bernie, saltwater in their mouths, saltwater on their skin, and marvels at the life she has now, the life made of things she’d only ever dreamed of. 

Bernie blushes, smiles against Serena’s lips, wraps her arms around her. “Hope that sunscreen was waterproof, Campbell,” she says, her breath hitting Serena’s cheeks, and Serena knows it’s just another way for Bernie to say “I love you too.”

*

The rain comes unexpectedly, a sunshower bursting forth with no warning, and they have to hightail it to their towels, to the umbrellas.

“What do you think?” Serena asks, wiping at her face with her towel, still relatively dry, thankful she paid for the extra amenities. “Wait it out?”

Bernie peers up at the sky, squinting, looking through the raindrops. She shakes her head. “There’s a bathtub in our room, isn’t there?” she asks, though she knows the answer, a smile quirking her lips. 

That’s all it takes to get Serena to bolt from the chair and begin the short run back up the boardwalk to their hotel. Dripping wet, they wait in for the elevator, other damp beach-goers around. Serena shivers slightly, her soaked-through towel clutched around her shoulders, Bernie stands close, minimizing the puddle they make, her presence warm at Serena’s back. 

When they get to their room, they bypass the idea of a bath, just turn the hot water on in the shower, and Serena pulls Bernie with her under the spray, lets the hot water sluice down their faces, their backs. She maneuvers Bernie’s swim top off, her hands eager, grasping, shoving at her bottoms the instant her chest is bared. Bernie doesn’t stand idle, pushing straps off Serena’s shoulder, making it easy for Serena to step out of her suit, to kick it to the side, landing on the bathroom floor with a wet sort of plop. 

Serena kisses Bernie, kisses her and kisses her, but pulls away before they can get up to anything particularly acrobatic, doesn’t feel her joints are quite up for it, isn’t sure Bernie’s are either. Instead she pulls the fluffy bathrobes from the closet by the bathroom, hands one to Bernie, wraps the other around her own body, swipes a hand through her hair, grateful as always for it’s short length, how easily, how quickly it dries. 

 

They watch the rain from the balcony, shielded by the balcony above them. Serena stands with her hands on the railing, leaning forward, her arms spread wide, and Bernie stands at her back, arms around her waist, fiddling with the terry cloth tie. 

It happens slowly, slowly enough that Serena doesn’t notice it at first, but Bernie’s slipped her hand inside the robe, loosened the tie enough that it hangs low, leaving room for her nimble fingers, blazing a path down Serena’s navel, curling in the thatch of coarse hair at the apex of Serena’s thighs. Serena lets her head loll against Bernie’s shoulder, doesn’t even think about who might be watching, who might see, only thinks of the rain falling around them, of Bernie’s fingers inside her.

Bernie’s in no rush, just building a slow rhythm, taking her time, and Serena can feel the desire, the want, the need, unfurling inside of her, a deliciously warm feeling, like standing near a fireplace on a cold day. Bernie alternates the movement of her fingers, slides a third one in, and Serena angles her hips slightly, adjusts for the girth, to make sure Bernie’s able to reach the places she likes most. 

She feels a bit like a violin, like Bernie’s playing the fiddle, plucking her strings, and the moan that falls from her lips is the music Bernie makes.

When she comes, it’s not with a shout or a grunt, but with the relaxing of her body, a head to toe feeling of bliss and satisfaction and she slumps against Bernie, tired and energized all at once. She grasps Bernie’s hand, holds it between her own, interlaces their fingers, and kisses her knuckles.

Serena leads Bernie back to bed, to the freshly made sheets that smell clean and fresh. They can hear the rain falling still, a steady sound that offers comfort, a sort of beauty about it all. She slips off the robe and slides under the sheets, curls towards Bernie. It strikes her how little time they’ve had together, unmarred by tragedy and pain, by familial drama, by jobs on other continents. But, she thinks, leaning forward to kiss Bernie’s lips, enjoys the slow, sleepy smile that spreads across her cheeks, they’ve made the most of it, they’ve found their happiness. She doesn’t regret the things that have kept them apart in the past, she can only think of how lucky she is now.

How lucky they are to still have the rest of the week to go. 


	3. get a little love of your own

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elinor takes Serena speed-dating. It doesn't go quite as planned.

“‘Love At First Sit’?” Elinor, what is this?” Serena brandishes the flier at her daughter, bright red, bold white lettering. 

“Just something I thought we could do together?” Elinor has that wheedling voice, the one that means she’s done something bad and is just hoping her mother goes along with it. “It was only thirty quid for the pair of us, and it’ll get you out of the house! When’s the last time you went somewhere that didn’t have at least five other doctors around?”

Serena wants to object, but Elinor’s question rolls around in her head. There was that night she went out for drinks with Sian, but that was at least six months ago. Beyond the occasional night spent at Albie’s, Serena doesn’t have much to show on her social card.

“And you think there’s a group of men that would be appealing to the both of us?” Serena arches an eyebrow. “I hardly have time for baby-sitting on top of my current career, I don’t want a boy around who’s young enough to be my son.” Elinor laughs at that. 

“It says all ages eighteen and over, Mum. And don’t sell yourself short, a nice young boytoy might be just what you need.” Elinor arches an eyebrow right back and Serena can see so much of herself in her daughter, even as her face flushes at the insinuation coming out of Elinor’s mouth.

She just hums in a sort of disapproving way all the while mentally going through her wardrobe, trying to think if she has anything like an appropriate dress for a night like this. She’s learned over these last few months that anything Elinor wants to do with her is something she’ll move heaven and earth to make happen. They’ve been through so much, near-death experiences, rehab sessions, therapy, and through it all, forged a new sort of relationship, one Serena holds dear. 

“When is it?” she asks, with a weary tone to her voice, but can see that a smile is about to burst across Elinor’s face, that she knows they’ll be going to this together. 

“Tomorrow night. And it only lasts an hour!” She bounces up to her mother, throws her arms around her neck, whispers in her ear, “And there’s wine.”

“Should’ve led with that,” she huffs in Elinor’s ear, but smiles all the same, winds her arms around her waist, holds her close, breathes in her hair, feels grateful for the thousandth time in twenty-four hours, to have her daughter alive and well. 

-

Serena regrets her decision to go along with this from the instant she steps into the low lowlit bar, red scarves draped over lamps, heart-shaped lights hung from the ceiling, tables decorated with garish red confetti, and it all just seems to be too much. “You can’t run away,” Elinor whispers in her ear, as if she’s sensed her mother’s tension, her fingers wrapped around Serena’s elbow. “I’ll get us wine, you check us in.”

“Should be the other way around,” Serena grouses, but she finds the woman with a clipboard all the same, gives their names and gets two numbers in exchange. She pins a bold 9 to her black dress, saves the 22 for Elinor. 

The tables are numbered as well, and the women are the one who stay in place, the men rotating around them. She sees some women have already taken their seats, sees the men milling around in small groups, as if they’re unwilling to break ranks before the event fully starts. 

Serena gratefully accepts her glass of red wine from Elinor, takes a big sip and immediately wrinkles her nose. “What is this? A house blend?” 

“It’s all they had! I thought red would be better than white!” Serena sighs, nods, takes a more conservative sip for her second taste. “Should we take our seats? It’s a shame we’re so far apart.”

“Might be for the best - you wouldn’t want to see your old mother flirting her way around the room now would you?” Serena asks with a wink, bumping Elinor’s shoulder. 

“Ergh. You’re right,” Elinor smiles, kisses her mother’s cheek, and then turns away, walks across the room to her table, just in Serena’s eyesight, her long red hair shining in the low light, a ripple of color that attracts the attention of more than a few men, and Serena can see them looking, tries not to immediately feel a spike of protectiveness at the thought of it. 

She slides into her chair, holding her skirt against her thighs as she sits, crosses her bare legs underneath the table, holds the stem of her wine glass delicately, tries to keep herself from toying with the pendant of her necklace, hitting her collarbone, right at the apex of her decolletage. 

“First time?” a husky feminine voice asks and Serena turns to see a beautiful blonde, maybe around her own age, with her arms folded, sitting at the table next to her. 

“Just here as a favor to my daughter,” Serena says, with a small smile, taking a sip of her wine, trying to disguise her ongoing displeasure at the taste. “You?”

“Lost a bet to my son. He’s around here somewhere.” The other woman sips at her glass of whisky. “He’s apparently developed a taste for older women, so you’ve maybe got a shot with him.” She lets loose a barking sort of chuckle that makes Serena stare before she remembers herself. 

“So you don’t want to be here either?” The other woman shakes her head, her loose blonde waves falling around her face, her fringe covering her eyes, and it’s quite a pretty picture, makes Serena’s heart flip around in her chest. 

“Bernie Wolfe, reluctant speed dater, and Number 8 for the evening, at your service,” she says, holding out her hand, and Serena accepts it gratefully, slides her fingers against Bernie’s palm. 

“Serena Campbell, beholden mother and Number 9, glad for the company.” She holds Bernie’s hand, enjoys the warmth of it, finds herself looking into Bernie’s eyes, deep and dark and warm, her long nose that probably wouldn’t look good on anyone else’s face, her thin lips that don’t look like they smile nearly enough. It’s only when she hears the sound of someone clearing their throat that she drops Bernie’s hand, isn’t quite sure how long they’ve spent holding hands. From the pink on Bernie’s cheeks, she thinks the other woman feels the same way. 

“So what are you looking for in a partner?” Serena asks Bernie, when she’s put a little distance between them again, situated more at her own table, hands once more on the stem of her wine glass. 

Bernie shrugs. “Anyone who isn’t my ex-husband.”

“Oh, a member of the bitter ex-wives club? Have you gotten the jacket yet?” Serena smiles broadly, feeling almost grateful to have a kindred spirit next to her for the night. Bernie nods, but seems little tight, unsure of herself. “No judgment here,” Serena adds, leaning once more into Bernie’s orbit, patting her shoulder, fingers sliding down her arm, touching briefly at her elbow before pulling away. 

There’s no time for further conversation as the host of the evening steps forward, clipboard still firmly attached to her arm, a look of firm efficiency about her. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Love At First Sit! Ladies, if you haven’t already, please take your seats. Gentlemen, you will choose a table and when the timer starts, you may sit. You have three minutes to get to know the woman across from you, and when the time goes off, you will move one chair to your right. Ladies, get comfortable, because this is where you’ll be staying for the next hour! Have fun, keep the conversation flowing, and….we’re off!”

The timer starts, a big red clock in the middle of the room, and Serena takes a deep breath, readies herself for whatever is about to come her way. 

Things go by in a blur, man after man sitting in front of her. She gets asked what her star sign is, who her favorite actor is, what turns her on, and any number of inappropriate questions that she wouldn’t tolerate on a first date, let alone in a three minute window. 

In between, the short bursts of time that go by while the men change seats, Serena finds an ally in Bernie, a shared eyeroll, a warning of what’s to come from the man sitting at her table. Serena has felt more emotion about Bernie Wolfe, a stranger sitting next to her, than any of the men that take the chairs in front of her. 

She steals a glance across the room at her daughter, can hear her laugh, sees her shaking her long hair, her neck tilted back in mirth, and knows that she’s learned the tried and true methods of flirting, knows that more than one gentleman will write down Ellie’s number tonight.

Serena allows her attention to wander from whatever dull fact she’s being told about this man’s life - his nametag says “Steve” - and looks at Bernie, who’s having what looks like a pleasant conversation with a man half her age. There’s even a snort of laughter, a touch of hands, and Serena finds herself feeling jealous. 

When the buzzer sounds, Bernie leans over to Serena. “This is my son, Cam. Be gentle with him, will you? I’ve seen more than half the men look like they’re running scared from your table.” She’s smiling as she says it, her lips stretched across her cheeks, splitting her face, and Serena can’t help but smile back. 

“Can you blame me? Not one of them has been worth a quid.” Serena drops a wink, sees Bernie swallow visibly, her smile shrinking, her eyes going a shade darker. She could stare at this woman’s ever-changing face all night, she thinks.

“Ahem,” Cam clears his throat, “This is my time to charm the lady, Mum, not yours.” Bernie’s whole face turns red, and she turns back, thoroughly chastised, to the man that has come to her table for this round. 

“So you’ve met my Mum, then,” he says, and Serena smiles, thinks this is finally a conversation starter she can get behind. “Hope she hasn’t told you all my faults.”

Serena rolls her eyes a bit at that, thinks that the very last thing she wants is to date Bernie’s son. Her thoughts briefly flit to the idea of what a date with _Bernie_ might be like. Her face flushes at the thought - it feels different, new, but also exciting. And the very last thing she’s supposed to be thinking about when she’s speed-dating twenty different men. 

“All I know is that you won a bet to get her here.” Serena sips her wine, the glass kept mercifully full by an attentive wait staff. 

“She should know better than to play poker with the person she _taught_ to play poker. The student becomes the master and all that.” He smiles, and Serena can see every bit of Bernie in his cheeky grin. 

“A couple of card sharks, then?” Serena has never played the game in her life, but has been told more than once that she has quite a poker face about her. 

“I’d teach you too,” Bernie interjects and Serena turns, sees the miffed expression on the man sitting at Bernie’s table. “I bet you’d make an apt pupil.” Her eyes are that mysterious dark shade that makes Serena’s toes tingle, make her stomach flip as her heart flops. 

“Excuse me?” the man says, his name tag has “Jacob” scrawled in messy handwriting. “You’re not supposed to be dating each other.” Bernie flushes at this, drums her fingers against the table, and Serena feels like perhaps they’ve been thinking the same things this whole time. She combs a hand through her hair with a nonchalant air and fixes Jacob with a withering stare.

“It’s hardly Bernie’s fault if you aren’t interesting enough to hold her attention, is it?” she says, hears a suppressed guffaw of laughter from Cameron, and sees Bernie’s eyes go wide. “I would imagine, _Jacob_ , that you haven’t had much success in your dating life if you’ve ended up here. Perhaps you might need to do some self-examination before turning the blame on other people.” She takes a triumphant sip of wine, has almost gotten used to the taste, decides to give Bernie a comforting squeeze to her thigh before turning back to finish her last few moments with Cam.

He’s got an appraising sort of look in his eyes when Serena meets his gaze, and she’s not sure what he’s thinking. “You just met my mum tonight?” he asks, almost suspiciously.

“Yes, why?” Serena feels nervous again, hand going to her neck, rubbing at the slightly loose skin there, fiddling with her necklace chain.

“You two just seem awfully chummy,” he says with a shrug, and then the buzzer sounds, leaving Serena feeling a bit poleaxed and with nothing to do but face Jacob, an irritated look already plastered on his face as he sits across from her.

“Do we even really need to talk for the next three minutes, or can we just agree we’re neither of us going to write each other’s number down and enjoy a bit of peace and quiet?” Serena asks, hears a snort from Bernie’s direction, can’t stop the small smile that creeps across her lips. Jacob just crosses his arms, his mouth set in a firm line. Serena takes this as permission to ignore him, and focuses instead on her wine, and on not staring at Bernie Wolfe.

There are no further incidents for the rest of the night, and Serena doesn’t write anyone’s number down, but as she’s getting ready to leave, Bernie hands her a slip of paper, her own mobile number written on it in bold penmanship, like she’s confident and sure. 

Serena fumbles with the paper a bit and Bernie leans in with a conspiratorial smile. “You were the most interesting person here by a mile. Wouldn’t mind meeting up for a proper drink some time.” She brushes a kiss to Serena’s cheek, and then she’s gone, her arm looping through Cameron’s as they leave the bar. 

Serena takes her phone from her purse, enters in Bernie’s number with slightly shaking fingers, can still feel the warm heat of Bernie’s lips from where they pressed against her face. Before she can slide her mobile back into her bag, Elinor appears, giddy and flushed.

“You _did_ get someone’s number,” Elinor says, “I saw you putting something in on your phone.” She seems almost gleeful, excited, happy. 

Serena feels a bit secretive about it, doesn’t want to lie to her daughter, but wants to keep Bernie for herself at the moment, doesn’t want anything to potentially muck the whole thing up. “I did. And I think I’ll call them tonight.” It’s true enough, she wants Bernie to have her number too. She wants to hear Bernie’s voice again, wants to imagine the sparkle of those dark eyes when Serena makes her laugh. 

“Good on you. I got loads of numbers but they all seem _terrible_. There was this guy, Cameron, I think. He seemed all right.” Serena chokes on her spit, has a spike of fear at the thought of potentially having to go on double dates with her daughter, immediately tries to tamp down on it all - it’s not like she’s dating Bernie, not like she’s even sure Bernie’s interested. _Not yet_ , a traitorous voice in her head says, and it makes a flush of warmth spread all down Serena’s body, settling in the pit of her stomach, a feeling she hasn’t felt in far too long.

Elinor mercifully lets the subject drop, doesn’t bring up again until she loudly announces she’ll be leaving the sitting room for at least half an hour if there’s anything Serena wants to do while she’s gone. Serena waits until she hears footsteps up the stairway, hears her bedroom door shut, before taking out her phone, sliding her thumb across the screen until she gets to Bernie’s number.

As it’s ringing, she suddenly feels panic, like perhaps she should’ve texted first, that’s the modern thing to do. She’s about to hang up when she hears a slightly breathless voice say, “Hello?” on the other end.

“Bernie,” Serena breathes. “It’s me, Serena.” There’s a pause and Serena berates herself for hoping too much, for wanting something so different from what she’s expected for herself. 

She’s again about to hang up, chalk the whole thing down to a misunderstanding and some sort of mid-life crisis when Bernie says, “Oh I’m so glad you called. I was just escaping to the patio - Cameron’s all prying eyes and ears, wouldn’t stop pestering me about you.” 

“I suppose it’s nice he wants you to be happy,” Serena says.

“And you think you can make me happy?” There’s a teasing note to Bernie’s voice, but under it all is a filament of flirting that makes Serena gulp, her heart lodged firmly in her throat, clogging up the works. 

“I think I’m worth a shot,” she answers, wishes she was sitting across from Bernie so she could wink, hold her hand, _something_. 

“I think you might be too,” Bernie says, her voice suddenly serious, earnest, and Serena can just picture her face, thinks how ridiculous it is that her features are already so firmly lodged in her brain. “Can you meet up for a drink tomorrow? I know a place with an _extensive_ wine list, sure to meet your needs.” 

Serena has to stop herself from tripping over her words to accept the invitation, reminds herself to play it at least a little bit cool. “Fair warning, I prefer to order by the bottle,” she says, lets the smile on her face warm her voice. “Meet you there, seven o’clock?” 

There’s a bit more idle chit chat, giving the address of the restaurant, stilted flirting as they each try to feel each other out. It’s a bit scary, Serena thinks, this dipping her toe in the sapphic pool, but if Bernie’s waiting in the deep end, then it’s worth the risk. She just hopes Bernie’s waiting.

-

Serena doesn’t think of herself as a person who gets nervous, doesn’t think of herself as someone who frets about a date. But, as she tries on her fourth dress and stares at her reflection in the full-length mirror, she realizes she is worrying about this one. 

“She’s seen you already, old girl,” she says to herself, running a hand through her short hair, making herself choose the dress she has on, red, knee-length, patterned with small flower blossoms. It’s not too showy, but not too buttoned up, the pendant of her necklace perfectly pointing the way to her cleavage, she’s wearing her best bra underneath it all, though she doesn’t think Bernie will see it this evening. 

Red lipstick, as much to give herself some courage as it is to be provocative, goes on her mouth, a little rouge to her cheeks. 

“Oh, Mum. He’ll eat his heart out,” Elinor says, poking her head into Serena’s bedroom. “You look smashing.” 

Serena rolls her eyes, grabs her small purse off the bureau, and heads down the stairs. It’s just as she’s about to go through the front door that she turns around and looks Elinor dead in the eyes. “I’m not going out with a man, my darling, but I’m sure the woman I’m meeting will like this just as much.” She feels proud of the open-mouthed expression on Elinor’s face as the door shuts behind her, carries that feeling all the way through her drive to the restaurant, parks in the lot behind it. 

“It’s just a date,” she tells herself, never mind that she’s spent the last twenty-four hours thinking about kissing Bernie, about holding her hand, about what she looks like across a candlelit table, about what she looks like the morning after sex. 

Bernie’s waiting at a table, waves Serena over, so she bypasses the hostess station. Bernie stands as she sits, a sort of prosaic gesture that is endearing all the while. “Been waiting long?” she asks, settling her skirt around her knees, crossing her ankles below the chair. 

“Not at all. And it was worth the wait.” Bernie’s gaze is at once both admiring and lusty, makes Serena blush, sure that with the color of her lipstick and her dress, the effect is all rather a bit tomato. 

“Can I confess something to you?” she says, suddenly feeling the need for honesty, to be forthright, doesn’t want to start whatever this may turn out to be on the wrong foot. Bernie nods, her hand going to the middle of the table, and Serena finds that her own hand automatically goes to meet it. Whatever the circumstances might be, the magnetic reaction she has to Bernie is undeniable.

“I’ve never been more than friends with a woman,” she starts, squeezing Bernie’s hand, doesn’t want her to pull it away, doesn’t want to let go. “Normally, I think this would terrify the life out of me but there’s just...there’s something about you. I feel like we were meant to meet. Which I know sounds silly.” She’s about to pull her own hand back, worried she’s played her cards to early, just looks at Bernie’s dark eyes and can’t tell what she’s thinking.

“It’s not silly,” Bernie says, her voice low, and she turns Serena’s hand over, traces the lines of her palm with short, well-manicured nails. “I think our chemistry is...undeniable.” She smiles as she says it, the soothing patterns her fingers are drawing on Serena’s hand a calming counterpoint to the wild beating of her heart.

“Is this your first…?” Serena trails off, not even quite sure what she’s asking. Bernie’s first date with a woman, her first attraction to a woman, her first time holding hands with a woman?

Bernie shakes her head, her hair loose and wavy, devastatingly attractive in its messiness and Serena just wants to run her hands through it. 

“I haven’t told my kids. They think I divorced their father because I came back from the army a different person, no other reason.” She laces her fingers through Serena’s, joining their hands once more. “Cam thought I just needed to get out more, meet the right man to help me back on my feet. Didn’t guess that I don’t want to meet a man at all.” She shrugs a little, and Serena’s other hand comes up to pat Bernie’s, unwilling to let go of their clasped fingers.

“How lucky that I was there, then,” Serena says, winks the way she wanted to over the phone last night, trying to imbue her smile with every sultry impulse in her body. 

“Have you been attracted to women before?” Bernie is blunt in her questioning and Serena is grateful for it, would rather this than awkward tiptoeing around a topic. She’s interrupted from answering by a waiter setting down a wine list in front of them, his cocked eyebrow as sure a sign that he’s been eavesdropping as any. 

When he leaves, Serena gives Bernie’s hand another squeeze. “I think I have been, but didn’t acknowledge - or was afraid to acknowledge - what it meant. This is the first time I’ve acted on it, certainly. Apart from a drunken night in Stepney where I kissed a girl at a party.” Bernie’s eyes go that shade darker at the suggestion of kissing. 

“I...There was a woman named Alex. I kissed her. Slept with her. She’s the only one. She was my gateway into...admitting it all. Into realizing what it meant, what I was. Into why I never really loved sex with my husband.” Bernie says the last bit with a sheepish sort of smile, the kind of smile that makes Serena want to place her lips right against Bernie’s, a sort of impusivity she’s unused to. 

She wants to flirt back, to say something, but the waiter’s returned, an expectant look on his face, and Serena unwillingly lets go of Bernie’s hand to pick up the wine list, scanning for the word “shiraz,” choosing a bottle she’s had before, one that’s not too pricey but still has a good body about it. 

“I should’ve asked - is a red all right with you?” Serena says, shooting a worried glance at Bernie.

“Red is just fine with me,” Bernie says, her voice that low husky tone that makes goosepimples erupt on Serena’s arm, because she knows Bernie isn’t talking about the wine. 

“Ahem. Right. Well.” Serena’s hand flutters at her neck, the line of her dress, fiddling with the low collar, and then she puts it back on the table, where Bernie immediately places her hand atop of it, an already familiar gesture, both comforting and stimulating all at once.

“Serena, there’s no pressure about tonight. We don’t have to...do anything. This could just be a dinner between friends.” 

Serena looks at Bernie, her mouth open and she’s sure her eyes look horrified. “Not...not _do_ anything? Bernie Wolfe, doing things with you is all I’ve thought about for the last day! I can’t stop thinking about it!” Her cheeks are fiery red, she’s sure of it, and Bernie’s mouth snaps shut, like she’s trying to keep an explosion of mirth at bay. 

She’s unsuccessful, and a loud honk of laughter escapes, wild and ridiculous and it’s Serena’s turn to try to hold in her laughter, clapping a hand to her lips. “I didn’t even order the goose!” she says around her glee, and it just makes Bernie laugh harder, not even trying to smother the sound, earning them stares from around the restaurant. 

They only manage to calm themselves when the wine appears, poured into their glasses by their supercilious waiter, and Serena feels like a chastened child, which makes her want to laugh all the more. 

“Let’s finish the bottle and get out of here,” Bernie says in a low voice, swallowing rather a large gulp of wine, and Serena feels that now-familiar rush of pleasure that curdles her stomach and makes her toes curl. 

She doesn’t even know what they talk about, doesn’t even remember the words that have come out of her own mouth. She does know that she can make Bernie laugh, and that Bernie can do the same. She knows what it’s like to slide her foot from its shoe and rub it against Bernie’s ankle. She knows what it’s like when Bernie presses a kiss against the pulse point of her wrist. She knows what it looks like when Bernie’s eyes trace the path of her tongue as she licks a drip of wine from her lips. 

Bernie insists on paying - Serena almost offers to arm wrestle her for it but thinks that might rather kill the mood. She’s led from the restaurant by Bernie, their hands firmly clasped. Bernie’s sporty little car is miraculously parked next to Serena’s and they stand there, holding hands, each unwilling to let the evening go quite yet.

“Can I...can I kiss you?” Serena asks, leaning in, not quite able to believe her luck. 

“Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to do it all night,” Bernie says, her last words muffled by the press of their lips together. And Serena lets herself feel the smooth strands of Bernie’s hair, threads her fingers in the loose waves. She slides her tongue into Bernie’s mouth, revels at the softness of it all. 

It is a revelation, it’s the best kiss she’s ever had, and she doesn’t want it to end, her arms going around Bernie’s neck, keeping her close as she chases the taste of shiraz on her tongue. 

“Everything you hoped it’d be?” Bernie asks, resting her forehead against Serena’s. Serena nods, nuzzling slightly against Bernie’s cheek, breathing in the smell of her. “Something you’d like to do again?” Serena nods again, can’t quite verbalize how much she wants to kiss Bernie again and again, would willingly give up oxygen if it meant she never had to stop kissing Bernie. 

“How lucky it was that we were sat next to each other,” Serena says quietly, kissing Bernie’s temple, her neck, below her ear. 

“Not luck, so much,” Bernie says, clearing her throat, and Serena pulls away to look at her square in the eyes. “Ah, I saw you get your number and, well. I traded someone for number eight. Just seeing you, I knew I wanted to meet you.” She’s got that sheepish look again, the one that makes Serena want to kiss the expression off her face, and so she does, just smothers Bernie with kisses, light pecks, her tongue tracing the outside of Bernie’s lips, and then she uses her teeth to gently pull at Bernie’s lower lip, before kissing her on the mouth once more. 

“Bernie Wolfe, you do beat all,” she says, her voice higher, breathier. 

“You should know that my full name is Berenice. I think I’d rather like to hear you say that in your Nuremburg-y lecture voice.” There’s a dancing mirth in Bernie’s eyes and Serena logs that information away for later, occupies herself with kissing Bernie once more.

When she regretfully pulls away, one hand on her car door, a look at Bernie’s face makes her never want to leave the other woman, and she doesn’t even stop to think how ridiculous that is, after only knowing the woman for a day. 

“We’ll do this again,” she says. “Again and again and again. We’ll be too busy for any of our children to suggest speed dating again.”

Bernie laughs at that, drops her hand from Serena’s waist. “Is that a promise?” she asks, fumbling in her overlarge purse for her keys, not taking her eyes off Serena’s. 

“It is,” she answers, leans in to kiss Bernie’s perfect mouth once more. “It is.”


	4. just keep on blowin' me up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> if you've seen grey's anatomy, this is an AU of the bomb episode! if you haven't seen grey's anatomy, this is a story about when a patient comes in with an unexploded bomb inside of them and bernie and serena have to deal with it!

“We’ve got a patient coming up from A&E,” Bernie says, moving by Serena, eyes on her pager, her hair floating, blonde waves fluttering slightly. Serena watches her go, always has to remind herself a bit that she can’t stare. 

“Why’re they sending it up here?” Serena calls after her, standing, pushing her chair back from the nurse’s station where she’s been sitting, head buried in reports. There’s no time to answer, the doors burst open, a patient on a gurney, the EMT with blood covering her front and her hand - her hand inside the patient. 

“There’s another rig behind us, the wife and the friend, but this needs to be sorted,” the paramedic says, with a meaningful look at the young EMT.

“I didn’t _mean_ to.” The girl is so young, reminds Serena of her daughter, her eyes big and scared, and her hand disappearing into the flesh of the patient in front of her. 

“You’re saving his life, do you hear me? Right now? You’re saving his life.” Serena puts a hand on the girl’s shoulder, smiles as gently as she can. “We’ll take some photos, do a quick scan, but we’ll get you into theatre in no time, get you out, get you cleaned up.” The girl nods, though she still seems shaky. “You’re keeping him from bleeding out. You’re a hero. I mean it.” Serena gives another squeeze to the girl’s shoulder, doles out orders to the nurses, to the F1s who have assembled around her. 

Serena thinks she’s gotten better at these trauma situations now that she’s had Bernie about. Bernie’s the instant reactor, the burst of adrenaline. Serena’s always been the analyzer, the stamina. Together, they’ve made quite a team, turned things around on AAU, made it a well-oiled machine. And Serena likes to think she’s made as much of an impact on Bernie as the other woman’s made on her. 

She’s changing into her scrubs when Bernie bursts into the locker room, a look of panic on her face, and she stands in front of the door, flips the lock so no one can intrude. Serena holds the scrub top to her chest, like she and Bernie aren’t both adult women who’ve worked with patients, like they both don’t have the same parts. Somehow she’s gotten more self-conscious around Bernie, always wanting to look her best, to look nice for the other woman, wishes desperately in this moment she wasn’t wearing a ratty tan bra because she’s nearing the end of her laundry cycle. 

Bernie averts her eyes, her cheeks pinking just slightly, and Serena pulls her shirt on, ties the drawstring at her waist. “What is it?” she asks, because Bernie still looks worried. 

“Where’s the patient - that man?” She moves closer to Serena, her voice hushed.

“He’s being prepped for surgery, the EMT too. Poor girl’s never been inside of an operating theatre before. Hell of an introduction.” Serena chuckles softly, runs a hand through her hair. 

“We have to be - Serena, we have to be careful. There’s - I think there’s an unexploded bomb inside of him, if his friend and wife are to be believed.” Bernie’s hands go to her own hair, tousling the messy curls even further as her gaze darts all around, her own panic evident, her normally cool head gone a bit out the window.

“A _bomb_?” Serena can’t quite believe it, sounds like something ridiculous that would happen on a weekly soap, not something that could happen here, in her own hospital, on her own ward. 

“They were messing about with this...weapon they’d built, and it went off - went off but didn’t explode. It’s in him, whatever it is, homemade unexploded ammunition.” Bernie bites her lip. “I don’t know hospital protocol for this. I _barely_ know army protocol for this.” 

“It’s a code black. Issue a code black. And...oxygen supply. That will be a problem.” Serena’s running through her mental catalog of all the issues she can think of, her surgeon brain taking over, her consultant brain. An ambu bag for the patient, evacuate the floor, the entire wing. “I’ll call up to Henrik, he’ll know what to do, he’ll call the right people. And you - you and I will go into surgery.” She’s braver than she feels, tells herself she’s got to put the patient first, that she and Bernie can do anything together, they’ve never found an insurmountable obstacle yet.

“And by the time we’ve got it out, they’ll be here to take it away, to dispose of it. It’ll be okay.” Bernie says it in a strong voice, as if she’s trying to convince herself as much as Serena. 

Serena calls up to the nurse’s station before they leave the locker room, tells them the code to call, assures them it’s the one she means. And then she calls Henrik, his calming tones the soothing balm she needs at this moment. “But Bernie and I can do it, we can get it safely, we can do this.” She looks at Bernie over her shoulder, sees the quiet, shy smile on her face. 

When she hangs up, she pulls Bernie into a hug, surprising the other woman as she embraces her, but then she feels Bernie’s thin arms come around her back, strong and hard, hands gripping her shoulders. “We can do this,” she whispers into Bernie’s hair, feels an answering squeeze right before they move apart.

Opening the door to the locker room, they can see that the hospital is abuzz, a frenzy of people moving about, but they move together through it, side by side, shoulders bumping as they go. 

Serena enters the scrub room first, is about to begin washing up when she sees the paramedic standing all alone, shaking, one hand still inside the patient, one hand squeezing the ambu bag. She grabs a mask from the dispenser by the door, holds it over her face and moves into the operating theatre. “All right?” she asks, keeping her voice carefully calm. 

“He - that doctor, the...anesthetist? He said there was a bomb inside this man? Said he had kids, and he left.” Her voice is shuddery and Serena can see the tears gathering at her eyelashes, and she just looks so young and scared. 

“You’re doing wonderful, love,” she says, pretends she’s talking to Elinor when she’s just been dumped by a boy, and she walks towards the operating table, slides her hand along the EMT’s arm, grasps the ambu bag between her fingers. “Let me take over this bit. You’re doing so much already.” Serena begins to squeeze gently, counting to three, starting an easy pattern. 

“Is it true there’s...there’s a bomb in here?” Serena wants to hug the girl, wants to comfort her, wants to do _something_ but doesn’t want to risk any upset, anything that might jostle the live ammo inside him. 

“What can you feel?” she asks instead, switching tactics, pretending it’s an F1 she’s got next to her in the theatre. “Don’t move your hand or anything, just tell me what you can feel.”

“It’s...squishy? But there’s - there’s something hard, just the tip of my finger on that,” the girl warms as she answers the question, her mind focused on giving information and not on anything else. 

“Good, good. Now do you know what part of the body you’ve got your hand in?” Serena continues her application of the ambu bag, gently coaxing oxygen into the man’s body before her. 

The girl shakes her head, hair falling into her eyes, reminding her for a moment of Bernie. “It’s my first day.” Serena _desperately_ wants to hug her now, but instead tells her about the organs she’s near, the scientific names for all the body parts she’s touching, thinking now of Evie Fletcher, future surgeon. 

She hears the doors to the theatre open, knows it’s Bernie there, looks up to see Morven behind her. “You didn’t evacuate too?” Serena asks with surprise, surprise that Bernie would let Morven come in as well, surprise that it won’t be just them. Morven just shakes her head tightly, stands near Serena, only moving back slightly at a look from Bernie. 

“What is it?” Serena asks, doing her best to keep worry from creeping into her voice. 

Bernie casts her gaze about, her hair hidden by her scrub cap, her mouth by the mask over the bottom half of her face. But then she leans in towards Serena, pushes the mask down slightly so her mouth is visible, her lips close to Serena’s ear. 

“I need to do this, and my mind needs to be clear,” she says, her voice low, and Serena turns, feels Bernie’s mouth brush against her hair as her face moves, feels a flutter in her chest even as she chastises herself for feeling something so frivolous at a time like this. “My mind needs to be clear and I can’t - I can’t do this with you in here.” Bernie’s eyes are serious, and Serena’s heart properly flips upside down, a pancake in her ribcage. 

Serena opens her mouth to protest, but sees the barest shake of Bernie’s head. “I can’t do this...with _you_ in here.” Her voice is so soft, so full of meaning, and Serena thinks that if they were anywhere else, she might kiss Bernie, has to choke back a laugh as she thinks idiotically that Bernie Wolfe might get blown up today and she’ll never have gotten a chance to kiss her. 

Instead she nods, lets Morven move in and take the bag, keep squeezing. Before she leaves the theatre, she presses a kiss into the EMT’s sweaty hair, another squeeze to her shoulder. “On your very first day, you’ve saved a life,” she says, “Don’t you forget that.” There’s a shaky nod and then Serena looks around to Bernie, to Morven, sees that there’s police officers outside waiting to come in. “Right. I expect to see all of you later. All three of you, not a scratch on any of you.” 

She wants to say something more to Bernie, wants to have her last words be something meaningful in case she can’t say anything else ever again. Instead she just smiles, the expression feeling foreign on her face, tight, strange, and she leaves, resists the urge to look back over her shoulder at Bernie, bumps shoulders with the policeman as he enters the theatre, standing at the surgical bed opposite the EMT. 

So recently the hospital was buzzing, people moving about, talking, rushing, scared. When Serena walks out onto AAU now, it’s dead quiet, patients evacuated, staff off to somewhere else, no doubt tending to the displaced patients. Not even the beep of a heart monitor to give Serena something else to think of, just dead quiet as she waits. 

She couldn’t say how long she waits, sitting idle at the nurse’s station, eyeing the red phone, swiveling back and forth in the chair. She doesn’t have her watch, her phone, all tucked away in her locker, and she doesn’t want to move from this spot, wants to be close if anything - if anything should happen.

There’s a booming noise, a shaking of the building, and Serena’s hands grip into the arm of the chair, she almost bites a hole into her lip. With all that noise, Serena sees nothing, hears nothing, doesn’t know if it’s Bernie, if it’s the bomb, if it’s on purpose, if it was by accident. There’s nothing more that she hates than not knowing. 

Her mind spins, reels out scenarios, of Bernie’s body charred. She thinks she heard the phrase “pink mist” somewhere - that’s all you are when a bomb explodes. She thinks she might’ve heard it from Bernie herself. That strange urge to laugh overtakes her again, and all she knows is that she wants Bernie, wants her in a way she’s never wanted another woman before, another person. 

How silly, how strange to know this when at this moment, Bernie Wolfe might be dead, and Serena never got a chance to tell her. How ridiculous that Bernie might be dead and there was nothing Serena could do to stop it. In the dead quiet aftermath of the explosion, Serena can hear footsteps, finds that she’s holding her breath as the doors to AAU open, can’t stop the sob that explodes from her throat as she sees Bernie, face dusty, ashy residue on her cheek, hair still so messy, so endearingly tangled. She almost trips over the wheels of the chair as she pushes herself up, as she moves to Bernie, huge strides, almost running to her, and hugs her, hugs her and knows she never wants to let go.

And when they pull apart, Bernie’s beautiful, wonderful, familiar face right there in front of her, Serena kisses her, kisses her with a fervor she didn’t know she possessed. When she thought she’d lost Bernie forever, it was like her heart shattered into pieces. When she saw Bernie come through the doors onto AAU, it was like her heart began putting itself back together. 

Her hands frame Bernie’s face, holding her close, her thumbs on those magnificent cheeks, her fingers against that beautiful hair, and she doesn’t care that the entire staff is watching them.

“Come with me,” she says in a husky voice, guttural with want, with desire. Bernie just nods, silent, her eyes dark, her lips smeared with the red from Serena’s mouth. Serena threads them through the crowd, ignoring the stares, the murmurs. She is still so filled with elation at the knowledge that Bernie is alive that nothing can penetrate the shell of that happiness.

There’s an on-call room, the door open from whichever doctor left in hurry, no doubt to investigate the Code Black page, or to evacuate. Serena doesn’t know, doesn’t care as she pushes Bernie into the room, closes the door behind them, clicks the lock purposefully, her eyes never leaving Bernie’s face.

“Are you all right?” she asks, her hand once more going into Bernie’s hair, tangling the strands between her fingers, her new favorite sensation. 

Bernie nods, her stare almost blank, focused on Serena’s mouth. “I am,” she says slowly. “You...kissed me.” Her eyes flit up to Serena’s, and she can’t help but look bashful, can’t imagine what Bernie’s thinking in this moment. 

“I did,” Serena says, her hand coming to cup Bernie’s cheek, thumb just brushing the corner of her lips. “I thought I’d -“ her voice cracks and she wills away the tears she feels forming at the corner of her eyes.

Bernie silences her by kissing her back, pushing her against the door, the handle pushing against Serena’s hip. Her mouth is hot, warm, insistent, and Serena can’t help the noise that escapes her when Bernie slips her tongue between her lips. 

It doesn’t matter that she and Bernie haven’t discussed anything, that she doesn’t know what she’s doing in this particular arena, not when Bernie’s hands slide under her scrub top, her hands calloused, clammy, but firm and strong and wonderful. 

She cups Serena’s breast through her bra, a squeeze, her mouth journeying to Serena’s chin, her jaw, never moving, never ceasing in its heady purpose. Serena tilts her head back, hitting the door lightly, doesn’t even register any pain.

Bernie’s other hand toys with the string of Serena’s scrub bottoms, unties the neat bow, pushes them down from Serena’s hips nimbly, and Serena helps, shimmying slightly so the scrubs fall from her legs, and she toes off her shoes almost trips over the fabric bunches around her ankles, but Bernie holds her up, her body lithe and strong, insistent in her purpose, insistent in her kisses.

Serena captures Bernie’s mouth again, holds her head in place, wants to focus on the taste of Bernie’s lips, even as Bernie’s hand moves beyond the elastic of her pants. She wishes, for the space of a moment, that she’d taken time to wear nicer knickers, fancier lingerie, knows that’s never who she’ll be, not when she’s got a full day of work.

She dislodges Bernie’s hand only to pull her scrub top off, a serviceable black sports bra on underneath, her skin beautiful and scarred, a veritable buffet for Serena’s eyes, a smooth landscape she can’t wait to touch.

Bernie’s fingers scrape against the coarse hair at the apex of Serena’s thighs and she can feel how wet she is already, how much she wants Bernie to touch her, how much she wants to come with Bernie’s name on her lips.

Bernie’s finger teases, dipping into the pooling wetness, drawing it up, and Serena can smell her own musk, the scent of sex just filling her nostrils.

Bernie adds another finger, shifts slightly so she can fit them inside of Serena, a focused movement, even as she continues kissing Serena senseless. 

This two-pronged assault is so satisfying, so impossibly good, that Serena can’t think for her pleasure. She spreads her legs slightly as Bernie adds another finger, whimpers slightly as Bernie’s mouth leaves hers, though it doesn’t go far, making a trail down Serena’s torso, stopping at each breast, mouthing her nipple through the bra. Her tongue circles Serena’s navel as she starts to kneel down, her hands sliding down Serena’s sides, and she’s never felt less self-conscious, more worshipped.

Bernie’s mouth is on her before her brain can even catch up to what’s happening. Her fingers spread Serena open, and her tongue flicks in, strong and purposeful, quick, insistent flicks that key Serena up that build her, that make her teeter along the edge.

Bernie let’s her thumb strum against Serena’s clit as she laps at her, and the dual sensation is enough to make a moan escape from her.

She doesn’t know if there are people crowded around the on-call room, if her noises during sex will be the talk of the nurses station tomorrow, and in this moment, she does not care, would toss every rule out the window in a heartbeat if it means that Bernie just. Keeps. Licking.

She sucks in her breath, feels her whole body go taut, looks down only to see Bernie’s dark eyes looking up at her, her forehead slightly damp with sweat, her fringe pushed to the side. She brings a hand to one breast, the other cupping Bernie’s cheek, a gesture she can’t stop.

As she works her own nipple, drawing it out from her bra, Bernie continues her focused attack, changing her rhythm ever so slightly, keeping Serena on edge, keeping her surprised.

It’s with a firm brush of Bernie’s tongue, a thrust of Bernie’s fingers and a tweak of Serena’s nipple that tip her over the edge, and she bites down on her lip, bites hard to swallow the yell that threatens to escape her.

Bernie heaves a sigh, rests her head gently against Serena’s bare thigh, her mouth pressing soft kisses to the flesh there, murmuring nonsensical words. Serena takes a moment to come back to herself, then flaps her hands at Bernie, pulls her up so they’re once again face to face.

“Are you all right?” she asks again, meaning a thousand things with one question.

“I am,” Bernie says once more, meaning a thousand things with her answer, and leans in to kiss Serena again, her fingers pressed against her collarbone gently, like a habit, like something she’s going to do for the rest of her life.


	5. my dreams are tropical icy cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Corfu, July 1989. Girls holiday after we graduated from med school. I had to lie in a darkened room for 2 whole days. At least I think it was a migraine. It could’ve been the 400 black russians we had on the booze cruise"  
> \---  
> Serena meets Bernie on holiday, fresh from school, waiting to see what the world has in store for her. (an AU for Day Four of Bernie/Serena Appreciation Week)

Things are noisy, chaotic, colorful. Serena can practically _smell_ the alcohol emanating from the hostel, can feel the sweat of the partying vacationers seeping out, settling on her pores. And she smiles. It's perfect.

Her first holiday where she hasn't had to think about school or exams or medicine, she hasn't packed a single book, didn't even bring notes to review to prep for becoming an F1. 

Maud, Margaret, Sian, they're all by her side, all happy to celebrate her success with her. It's been a long time since she's felt so free, so unburdened, so young. 

Sian checks them in, slides her credit card across the desk, no secret that she's the financial backing of this holiday. "I'm happy to pay the bill if this means Serena Ballerina will make an appearance" is what she'd said when they'd planned it out a few months ago, when Serena was drowning in homework, moaning about how she'd never have fun again.

"Here's our room keys, the bar is open all day and all night. And we're going on a booze cruise tomorrow. Don't know if this means you need to practice or if you need to rest up. I leave it to you," Sian says, all business with a quirked smile, dancing eyes, as she doles out their room keys.

They've got a dorm room to share, separate from the rooms with bunkbeds, meant for people doing a holiday on the cheap, willing to have a room with strangers. Instead, it'll be the four of them, a little bit of privacy, just a shared shower with another room. Serena's honestly a bit surprised Sian's chosen that option, rather than sticking them all in a room with a boy she'd like to shag. 

"This holiday isn't about me, 'Rena, it's about you. I can't imagine you feeling at all comfortable with some young buck snoring two beds away," Sian says, when they're in their room and Serena puts voice to her thoughts. 

"Well that's very kind of you," Serena says, can't even think of the last time she's had a 'young buck' between her legs, much less two beds away. There's a bit of throbbing between her thighs and she thinks maybe there's something else she can take care of on this holiday.

It seems to be some sort of rule of this place that swimsuits are required attire, so Serena dutifully slips off her clothes, musty from travel, wrinkled, and slides on her suit, ignores Sian's comments that it's the kind of suit a nun might wear. "We can't all be in bikinis, can we now?" Serena says, eyeing Sian's full cleavage. Margaret and Maud peel off from them, saying something about a jacuzzi, and Serena thinks she probably won't see them again for a good few hours.

"I'm going up the sun deck," Serena says, stops at one of the many bars along the way for a gin and tonic, the lime squirt seeming extra fresh, she wonders if it was locally picked from some Grecian lime tree. 

There's lawn chairs and a few people milling about, a much chiller vibe than anything she's passed by on her way up. Serena digs in her bag for sunscreen, starts rubbing it on her shoulders, her face. 

"Oi! Need a hand with your back?" a broguish voice calls out, followed by laughter. Serena looks up, follows the sound and sees an attractive man with his friends, tanned and laughing on chairs just down the way.

"Why, are you offering?" Serena asks, emboldened by the drink, by the holiday, by the freedom she feels settling around her shoulders.

"Oh, crack on, mate!" One of the stranger's friends claps him on his back, urging him in Serena's direction. 

Smiling, teeth white against his suntanned skin, he lopes over to Serena, holds out his hand for the tube of sunscreen. Serena holds a hand to her brow as she looks up at him, his head just blocking the sun. "I don't let anyone rub my back if I don't know their name," she says, smiling back.

"I'm Edward," he answers, taking the proffered lotion, and Serena dutifully turns her back to him, braces herself for the touch of his hands on skin, the cold of the sunscreen. He surprises her, rubbing his hands to warm them before gently placing his fingers against her spine, massaging it into her skin.

She closes her eyes at the sensation, wonders what Sian would say if she could see Serena now. Edward is talented, skilled, precise in his movements, and Serena thinks she might come to him every day for this service. 

When he's finished, he hands her the lotion over her shoulder. Taking it, she turns back towards him, squinting slightly once more as she looks up at him, appraising him. "Thanks very much," she says, arching up to kiss his cheek. 

"I'm Serena, by the way. I'll be here all week." She winks and settles back against her chair, closes her eyes, not opening them until she hears him walk away, hears the hooting of his mates as he returns to them.

Serena ends up falling asleep on her deck chair, not even sunscreen able to protect her nose from pinking up, freckles popping out on her cheeks. 

It's only Sian's shadow, blocking the sun, that wakes her up. "You're sleeping?" she asks, her tone fondly accusatory. "I've made off with three blokes already, and you're having a nap!" 

Serena smiles, blinking up, getting re-accustomed to the bright sun, the glowing light that seems to cover everything. "You holiday your way and I'll holiday mine," she says, lets her best friend pull her up from the chair, follows her back down to one of the many bars, accepts the cocktail that's pushed into her hand. 

Sian's good for her, helps her from getting to boring, keeps her on her toes, keeps things interesting. They settle in at the bar, and Serena nestles her head against Sian's shoulder. "Thanks," she says, "If I haven't said it yet, I really and truly mean it. Thank you."

"You've said it a thousand times, 'Rena. Shut up, drink your drinks and come out with me on the dancefloor, that's all the gratitude I need." Sian smiles wide, slings an arm around Serena's shoulder and patiently waits for her to down the rest of the cocktail, leaving nothing but ice cubes and a small paper umbrella. 

They dance until Serena's feet hurt, but she just orders another cocktail, and soon the concept of pain is erased from her mind, and she just lets the music pound through her, the colors blur together into a beautiful panoply. She can see Sian laughing, Sian smiling, thinks she's reached as close to perfection as she'll find, as she spins around a dancefloor in Greece, her best friend next to her, not a worry in her mind.

It catches up to her the next morning, the music abated, but her head still pounding. Sian drags her down to the breakfast buffet, shoves a coffee in her hand. "Get yourself right, Serena, we've got a booze cruise to go on. Hair of the dog and all that, yeah?" 

Serena grumbles slightly, but admits the eggs and bacon make it all a bit better, takes the world's hottest shower, drinks more water than she thought her body could hold, and by the time they've got to make their way down the dock, she's ready as she'll ever be, swimsuit on, sarong wrapped around her waist, sunglasses on her head. Sian catches sight of someone she knows, leaves Serena, Maud and Margaret on their own as she weaves through the party-minded crowd to find the man. "I suppose 'someone she knows' is code for 'someone she snogged yesterday,'" Maud comments dryly. Margaret laughs, and again the two of them go their own way. Serena thinks they've rather just tagged along for the holiday, rather than out of any real desire to spend time with her or Sian, but if she's honest, it's all right with her. She's enjoying the space to be alone, anonymous.

It’s midday when the boat leaves the dock, the sun high. Serena’s wandered the the deck a bit, finally finds a space at the bar, where a girl about her age is tending, loose white shirt, trousers tight enough that Serena can see the outline of her pants.

“My mother always taught me that the best way to get a good drink is find out the name of the bartender.” Serena smiles, leans across the counter slightly, holds out her hand. “So, what’s your name then?” “Bernie,” is the answer, with a shy shake of the head that makes her fringe fall into her eyes and Serena has the strange urge to reach up and brush it aside. “Well, Bernie, what do you have behind that bar of yours?” Serena pulls back, letting her hand linger against Bernie’s, enjoying the slide of their palms, the unfamiliar tingle she feels along her spine.

“Beer, wine or cocktail, what’s your fancy?” Bernie’s got a cheeky smile on her face as she leans forward on her elbows, bringing her face closer to Serena’s. 

“I’ve never had much of a taste for wine,” Serena says with a shrug and Bernie looks at her with an expression of horror.

“You’ve not had the right kind then! That’s outrageous, not liking wine. You’re about to have a tasting, you are.” Bernie gets to work, lining the counter with small glasses, finding bottles under the counter, creating a gradient of colors as she pours different wines out.

“We’ll start light, move dark. That’s how they do whiskys anyway.” Bernie watches as Serena sips at a white and wrinkles her nose, another one and another. “Well clearly you’re not one for the white wine. Is that all that’s ever been chucked your way?” 

Serena shrugs again, can’t actually remember the last time she had a proper glass of wine, thinks only of communion when her mother dragged her to Christmas services. 

“Well. Maybe let’s try this one. Shiraz.” Bernie pushes a glass forward, the liquid a deep garnet, beautiful in the sunlight, and Serena lifts it, looks at it appraisingly.

She sniffs at it and it’s the first one that makes her smile, a smell that dances around her nostrils, fruity and warm. When she sips it, it slides down her throat, fills her mouth, makes her want another sip. She licks at her lips, takes another drink of it, and Bernie slaps the bar in glee. “That’s the wine for you, then.”

Serena grins, downs the rest of the taster in one gulp. “That’s a beautiful wine. Thank you.” Bernie refills her glass without being asked and then moves on to another questing drinker, pours out a cocktail, smiles and laughs, and Serena supposes her time with the beautiful bartender is at an end, she can’t be expected to stay in front of Serena for the whole cruise.

“What’re you drinking, then,” Sian appears at her side, chin wedging against her shoulder. Serena tilts her head against Sian’s and offers her a sip.

“Shiraz,” she says, enjoying the word as it slips off her tongue. Sian wrinkles her nose, doesn’t take the glass, instead waving her hand, getting Bernie’s attention. Serena feels flushed all of a sudden, like she doesn’t want to share Bernie, like she doesn’t want Sian to meet her, to say something that will make Bernie feel uncomfortable, doesn’t even know what that might be.

Her cheeks are red when Bernie smiles widely at her, asks her if she’s all right, all before turning her attention to Sian. “What can I get you?” she asks, and Sian looks between the two of them for a moment, and Serena can’t quite tell what she’s thinking.

“Black Russian - two of ‘em.” She nudges Serena. “And drink fast because our first stop is coming up - cliff diving. And the captain says clothing is optional!” Sian winks and Serena goes even redder, looks at Bernie who is determinedly not looking up as she pours out the vodka.

Before she slides the glasses to Sian and Serena, she drops a cherry in each glass, the stem peeking out above the rim.

Serena sips at hers, Sian picks hers up and toasts to her, to Bernie. “I’m off, but you two behave yourselves. Might want to show off what you can do with that cherry stem, ‘Rena,” Sian says with another wink, a pat to Serena’s rear as she leaves.

“You’ve got a feisty girlfriend there,” Bernie says, that shy look on her face from before back. Serena almost chokes on her drink, splutters a moment and puts the glass down.

“She’s not - we’re not together.” Serena thinks she’s spent more time blushing in front of Bernie than doing anything else, but she doesn’t say that she’s never been with a girl, that she’s not interested in girls - a statement which, up until meeting Bernie, she would’ve stood by. But there’s something about the bartender in front of her that’s making Serena’s mind go all sorts of new places.

“Good to know,” Bernie says, a knowing sort of look in her face, and she drops another cherry in Serena’s glass before moving back down the bar to make a cocktail for someone else.

Serena finishes her drink, leaves the cherries behind and goes off to find Sian, couldn’t even get Bernie’s attention to say she’d be off, everyone trying to get shots in before jumping off the cliffs.

Sian clasps their hands as they jump off the fifty foot cliff, Serena’s bathing suit firmly on - holiday or no, she wasn’t likely to strip in front of strangers. Time seems to stop as they fall through the air, it’s all beautiful and lovely, and when they hit the clear blue water, Serena lets her body jackknife down before pushing herself up, propelling to the surface, gasping for breath, a smile on her face as she pushes her hair back.

She watches as Sian cozies up to some boy she’s met, talks him into stripping off his shorts as she tosses her bikini top in Serena’s direction, and then the two of them race to the cliff edge and jump, Sian yelling out in joy as she goes. Serena briefly wonders what it’s like to be so free.

Heading back to the boat after the rush of the cliffs is a bit of a letdown, and even worse, Bernie isn’t at the bar. Serena purses her lips, tries to not feel too much disappointment at it.

Just as she’s turning away, she gets a tap on the shoulder. “All right?” Bernie says, smiling, happy, on the other side of the bar now, standing right in front of Serena.

“Yes,” Serena says on a breath, relief rushing through her. Her hands tangle in her long wet hair and she thinks briefly that she should’ve had it cut before going on vacation. She catches drops on her fingers, smooths them against her still-damp suit.

“How were the cliffs, then? Keep your top on?” Bernie has such a cheeky look on her face and it makes Serena’s stomach do a twisty sort of dance, the kind she’s only ever felt when speaking to boys. 

“Haven’t had nearly enough drinks to pop it off yet,” She banters back and Bernie laughs, a barking sort of chuckle that Serena likes at once. 

“Well I’m just coming in off break, let’s take care of that then, eh?” Bernie chucks Serena’s chin, her fingers moving against her skin faster than Serena can react, and she’s left blushing again as Bernie situated herself on the other side of the bar once more.

Serena is two Black Russians in before the boat leaves the cliffside and she’s come around to the conclusion that Bernie might be the funniest, cleverest, prettiest person she’s ever met.

She’s well into her third when Bernie looks at her, a slow smirk spreading her lips, splitting her face. “So what can you do with a cherry stem, then?”

“You know what they always say about good writers?” Serena asks, sees the confusion cross Bernie’s face. “Show, don’t tell.”

She picks up the cherry from her glass, sucks the liquid from the outside of the fruit, aware of Bernie’s eyes on her, her slightly parted lips. Splitting the stem off, Serena pops it in her mouth, and with as much elegant maneuvering as she can, ties it into a knot with her tongue. When she’s sure of it’s new configuration, she opens her mouth and shows Bernie the roughly knotted stem, sitting on her tongue.

Bernie doesn’t react for a long moment and Serena suddenly feels nervous, self-conscious, like she’s misunderstood everything. 

“You know, that’s a common trick that gets trotted out at a bar,” Bernie says and Serena closes her mouth, pulls the stem out, makes ready to leave the bar, bury her shame in Black Russians somewhere else, but Bernie catches her hand, “but that’s the best I’ve ever seen.”

Serena lets Bernie pull her back toward the bar, their hands not parting even after she’s perched on a stool once more. “Another drink? On the house?” Bernie starts pouring before Serena answers.

“It’s an open bar, they’re all on the house,” Serena answers, but takes the drink, sees Bernie’s poured one for herself as well, waits until they can clink their full glasses before taking a sip.

“To new friends,” Bernie says, with a smile so bright it warms Serena even more than the alcohol, the attention making her senses heightened, more aware of everything she’s doing.

“Are you stuck behind the bar all day?” Serena asks, with a bravery she doesn’t quite feel, but knows she’ll regret it if she doesn’t ask.

“We get breaks when you lot get off the boat to explore our stops. Other than that, I’m done when we dock back at the hostel.” Bernie sips at her drink and Serena cocks her head, thinks of the best way to phrase her next sentence.

“I’ve never been one for bats,” she says, immediately knows that wasn’t as smooth a line as she was hoping for when Bernie’s face doesn’t immediately split into a grin of understanding.

“I don’t want to go to the bat caves,” she clarifies. “That’s the next stop, right?” Bernie nods slowly, and Serena can see the realization dawning on her face. “I think I’ll stay on board.” She smiles, lets a slow wink drop as she turns, her drying ponytail flicking around her shoulders as she walks away.

Serena manages to maintain some level of sultriness until the crowd of people close around her and she’s sure Bernie can’t see her anymore. She drops her shoulders with relief, knows undeniably that in about fifteen minutes, if the boat is on schedule, she’ll have some time with Bernie.

She finds Sian, tells her that bat caves and more cliff jumping isn’t for her. “I’d rather just sit on the boat,” she says, “maybe have a cocktail.” Sian looks at her and Serena has the distinct feeling that she knows more than she’s letting on, that Sian has some sort of preternatural ability to suss out when Serena’s keeping things.

But she is just as able to let Serena have her secrets, confident in the knowledge that she’ll be told when the time is right. So she nods, says she’ll see Serena later. “Have a Black Russian for me. Or five.” She presses a kiss to Serena’s cheek, and then gets off the boat.

Bernie’s waiting at the bar when Serena returns, her shoulders slightly tensed and Serena wonders if something’s gone wrong in the ten minutes since they’ve spoken.

When Bernie catches sight of her, though, her posture eases, her tanned face unshutters and Serena feels like she’s seeing the emergence of a butterfly from a cocoon. “All right?” she asks, standing close to Bernie, close enough that their arms touch.

“I’m not used to getting things I want,” Bernie says with a frank honesty that shocks Serena a little, but she adjusts, lets her fingers just brush against the bit of bare skin between Bernie’s denims and shirt, the tiniest sliver of suntanned skin. “I thought you might’ve changed your mind,” she adds, looking down at Serena’s hand, and Serena suddenly wonders if she’s misread everything, her fingers freezing in place.

“And miss out on all this?” Serena asks wryly, using the excuse to move her hand, gesturing at the empty deck, glasses and bottles littered around, abandoned pants that would’ve left very little to the imagination even if they still were on their owner’s behind.

Bernie chuckles again, that dry sound, and catches Serena’s hand in her own. “Come with me, there’s a crew area, best spot to sit and watch the ocean.” 

Their fingers tangled, Bernie leads Serena through the boat, winds down a staircase and down another hallway, keys in a passcode to a door that opens into a sort of locker room. “Just where we put our stuff during the day,” Bernie mutters, moving past her fellow crew members, some getting ready for a brief shower before the cruisers return, some just sitting around chatting.

Through one more door, there’s a deck, the same chairs set out here as there are above, for the guests. The only difference is that they’re clean, it’s quiet, and there’s no bar. “Nice little escape,” Bernie says in Serena’s ear, her lips just brushing her skin.

Serena turns before Bernie can move away, and they’re standing so close, their hands still clasped. She uses her free hand to caress Bernie’s cheek, a gesture she doesn’t even know she’s doing until her thumb rubs gently across a mole, and Bernie’s deep eyes look even darker.

“I’ve never d-“ Serena starts to say, but she’s silenced by Bernie’s mouth, pressed against her own. It’s a frenetic sort of kiss, like Bernie’s been bottling up her want, her desire all day, and now she’s pouring it into this. Her lips are lovely, soft, and their bodies pressed against each other is a wholly new sensation that Serena thinks she might love. The hand on Bernie’s cheek moves to her shoulder, her waist, her back, she can’t get enough of the feel of her, of the feel of them together.

Bernie pulls away reluctantly, little pecks to Serena’s lips before she fully ends the kiss, before there’s space between them again. “Sorry,” she says a bit sheepishly, running a hand through her hair.

“Are you kidding?” Serena asks, halting Bernie’s hand with her own, marveling at the softness of the messy blonde hair, thinks about tangling her fingers in it, doesn’t even try to hide her blush at the thought. “I’ve been wanting to do that all day.”

Her hand cups Bernie’s cheek once more, and she feels like her own face is going to be sore from smiling, at the wonder she feels, the contentment.

“What were you going to say when I interrupted you?” Bernie asks, nuzzling against Serena, her long nose insistent against her cheek, her jaw, moving her face just so until Bernie can press her lips to Serena’s neck.

Serena tilts her head, her eyes fluttering closed at the feeling. “Doesn’t matter,” she says, both hands in Bernie’s hair now, combing through the strands, keeping her near, encouraging her wandering mouth. “It isn’t true anymore anyway.”

She can feel Bernie’s lips smiling against her chin, right before she kisses Serena again. Her hands slide under Bernie’s shirt, lifting up the loose white fabric, fingers finding bare skin once more and Bernie shudders at the touch, whispers her pleasure against Serena’s heated skin. 

“Not looking at the ocean, are we?” Serena mutters against Bernie’s hair, loose strands sticking to her lips, to the slight sheen of sweat on her cheeks. 

“There are better things to see,” Bernie says, pulling away enough that she can look into Serena’s eyes, her own dark and lovely, mysterious, drawing Serena in, and all she can do is press her lips against Bernie’s again and again, her tongue darting out, her reactions instinctive, there’s not a thought in her head beyond how to continue doing this forever. 

Bernie’s hands are toying with the knot of Serena’s sarong and Serena knows if she was in anything other than a swimsuit, her top would be half off by now. Just as the silky cloth drops from her waist, the door to the crew deck bangs open, a few laughing staff members spilling out. 

“Oi, Bernie. Caught another girl in your trap, eh?” one hoots out before the group moves down and away from them, preoccupied with each other and not the two formerly-snogging girls at the other end of the deck. Serena stiffens, pushes Bernie’s hands down, away from her. 

“It’s - Serena, it’s not like that. I know how it sounds, but - but it’s not how it is.” Bernie’s voice is pleading, but Serena won’t look her in the eyes, can’t, bends down to pick up her sarong, a colorful pile on the ground. Bernie’s hand catches her chin, holds it until Serena stonily meets her gaze. 

“What is it? I’m different, I’m special, I’m not like anyone else you’ve met?” Serena challenges, has heard pretty words from countless boys before, didn’t expect to hear them from Bernie, even if they’ve only known each other a few hours. 

“That’s all true, but it sounds trite coming out of your mouth like that,” Bernie says, dropping her hands, stepping away from Serena, giving her space. “You’re the first girl I’ve wanted to see after the boat docks in the evening, the first one I’ve been thinking of asking out to dinner. The first one I thought I might make plans with down the line.” Bernie shuffles her feet, hitches her shoulder. 

“I don’t deny that I’ve taken other girls here for a snog, and I won’t apologize for it. But it’s not a game, it’s not something...it just happens.” She is earnest, scuffs her foot against the deck, and Serena weighs her options. 

It’s not as if she expects a long-term commitment from this near-stranger, not as if she was expecting anything more than some kissing, maybe some heavy petting for the rest of the day. But her ego feels bruised, like she’s nothing more but one in a long line. Biting her lip, she thinks that it’s unlikely that she’ll see Bernie after today, why not just give in, why not just let life go for now, live in the moment. 

Instead of saying anything, she reaches out to cup Bernie’s cheek, to pull her back in, puts her lips right where they were moments before, lets her brain shut off again, loses herself in the feel of Bernie’s arms wrapping around her, holding her close, her sarong dropping to the ground once more, unnoticed by either. 

-

When Serena wakes up the next morning, she doesn’t even open her eyes, just the sunlight peeking around the blinds of the room enough to contribute to her pounding headache. 

“Nice to see you up, sunshine,” Sian’s voice breaks through her migraine like a pickaxe to her eye, and Serena just groans, rolls back over onto her stomach, buries her face in the pillow. “You got quite busy with that bartender yesterday, didn’t you?”

Normally Serena would love the chance to share this new life experience with Sian, to surprise her with her bravery and boldness, with the fact that she’s kissed a woman. More than kissed her. But right now, in this moment, all she wants is to drift back into the mindlessness of sleep, where she doesn’t have to be aware of the pain in her skull, of the slight nausea at the edges of her awareness. “Too loud,” is all she says, turning her face slightly so her mouth is less muffled by the pillow. 

“Poor thing’s out of practice,” Sian teases. “There’s water by the bed, I’ll get you some acetaminophen, and leave you be. But you’d best be ready to come out again tonight.” It sounds so grim, foreboding when Sian says it like that. Serena manages a small moan in response, doesn’t even move after she hears the door shut behind her.

She tries to think of what happened, lost track of the drinks Bernie poured her, of the ones Sian shoved into her hands. She was a whirling dervish composed of Black Russians and lust, spinning around, dancing, beaming at Bernie, fingers dancing across her arm, twirling away as Sian pulled her away, the pulsing beat replacing the beat of her heart. 

The night comes to her in flashes, and it all moves quickly in her mind, making the pounding of her head worse, the room seems to be spinning around her. She blindly reaches for the water by her bed, lifting her head up only to take a sip as she swallows a few pills with the liquid. 

Serena falls back asleep, fitful though it is, and she doesn’t feel at all well-rested when she wakes again. She’s still alone in the room, lays there for a long moment while she tries to decide whether or not she has the energy to take a shower. 

It takes a lot of willpower, a lot of talking herself into it, but she does peel herself out of bed and makes her way on unsteady feet to the showers, turns the water on as hot as it will go, lets the steam, the heat, soothe her as much as it can. She imagines toxins leaching from her body as the water sluices down her back. 

When she’s wrapped in a towel, her cheeks pink and shiny, she makes her way back to the room, sits on her bed and gulps at the water again, empties the glass. She doesn’t know where Sian is, doesn’t know where Margaret and Maud are, wonders how sad it might be to just take a day to stay in bed, to take a break from being the wild vacationer. 

Sleep is what wins out again as her eyes feel heavy, as she sinks back against the sheets, the smell of Kahlua still present, making her stomach turn slightly, but there’s nothing much to be done - she doubts Sian’s bed smells much better. 

-

It’s only Sian’s insistent tapping on her shoulder that gets Serena up that evening, rolling over in a tangled mess of hair. “Right, up you get, Ms. McKinnie. We need to get some food into you, maybe another cocktail or five. Can’t have you in bed all day.” 

“Why not?” Serena asks grumpily, rubbing at her eyes, thankful at least that her headache has abated, but she swings her legs over the side of her bed all the same, aware that she fell asleep in her towel, her hand going to her chest, holding it in place as she moves. “Give me ten minutes,” she says with a sigh, pushing herself up to a standing position. 

“I’ll give you five,” Sian says with a laugh, closing the door behind her. Serena fumbles for a beach dress, one she can just slide on without another thought. She runs her hands through her hair, sorting out the easiest tangles, securing it into a messy bun at the nape of her neck, slings gold hoops into her earlobes. Looking at her reflection blearily in the mirror, she can’t decide where to start, thinks every bit of the hours she spent drinking, laughing, cavorting, is showing on her face. She slaps on some lippy, a bit of mascara, thinks that’ll have to do, the freckles that have come out from her time in the sun the only other adornment on her face.

“Right, then. We’re off,” Sian says when Serena emerges, grabbing her hand, pulling her along down the hallway. 

“I can go on my own steam, you know,” Serena says, but doesn’t really try to pull her fingers from Sian’s grasp, happy to be led wherever they’re going, happy to not have make a decision, to not have to know anything in this moment, still foggy and unsteady, even after a day in bed.

Where they’re going turns out to be a club, thrumming bass, pounding music, a repeat of every single club in Corfu, it seems. Serena doesn’t even protest, knows there isn’t a point, just goes up to the bar, takes the drink Sian orders for her and sips at it, resting her elbows against the bar as she surveys the dancefloor.

Sian finds someone, she always does, her cursory check that it’s all right with Serena before she disappears into the crowd. She sips through the tiny straw plopped into her glass, rolls her head back and forth, trying to will some energy, some enthusiasm, into her body. 

“Come here often?” A familiar low voice sounds next to Serena, Bernie appearing without being noticed, and Serena doesn’t even jump, just feels too relieved to see a friendly face, this friendly face in particular. “You get left alone at bars quite often,” she says, bumping her shoulder against Serena’s. 

“I’ve been lucky enough to find good company recently,” Serena parries back, another bump of the shoulders. 

“Dance with me?” Bernie asks, her hand sliding down Serena’s arm, tangling their fingers together. Again, Serena feels pulled along, but again, she doesn’t mind it, just lets Bernie bring her out onto the dancefloor, the lights flashing, bodies jumping, the smell of sweat, of alcohol, of ocean air all coalescing. 

Serena and Bernie move together, their bodies gyrating, practically writhing, it all feels so fluid and lovely and Serena can’t deny she’s getting heated as she feels Bernie’s hips thrust against her own. She wraps a hand around Bernie’s head, pulls her in for a sloppy kiss just as the music fades out, the dancing coming to a halt for a brief moment, no movement except for Bernie and Serena moving in tandem, to a beat only they can hear. 

When the music starts again, a new song that carries everyone along with it, Serena looks at Bernie, eyes dark and serious, but doesn’t know what to say, what she wants to say. So she just kisses Bernie again, her tongue sliding into Bernie’s mouth, a dance of its own as her body moves in time with the music once more, languid movements that elicit mirrored movements from Bernie, and they’re lost once more in the music, in each other.

When she’s had her fill of dancing, when the music is all just too much, she and Bernie emerge from the club, breathing the salty night air, refreshing from the claustrophobic smells of the bar. There’s a bench just a block down, and Serena plops on it, Bernie following, sitting too close, their legs practically overlapping. She presses a kiss to Serena’s cheek, lingers, breathing softly, gently, quiet exhalations raising the hairs on her neck, making her aware of it all. 

“You said I was different,” Serena says, a non sequitur that Bernie is able to follow. She moves back from Serena, nods, still close enough that the tips of her hair brush Serena’s shoulder, tickling her skin. “What does that mean?” She wants to know, wants to define this, has always liked definitions for things. 

“I don’t know,” Bernie says, and her honesty hurts, but Serena doesn’t know what she expected, not really. Bernie clasps Serena’s hand. “I’m still in Greece for a bit and then...I’m not quite sure what’s next for me.” She’s every bit the mysterious stranger with a cloudy future, it figures that’s who Serena would fall for on a vacation. 

“And I’m off to my training, starting as a lowly F1,” Serena says with a sigh, her future seeming closer than it ever has before, now a barrier to this potential, to skiving off everything she has planned, running away with a beautiful blonde who tends bar. 

“I’d say let’s enjoy what we have, while we have it,” Bernie says, a tentative kiss at the corner of Serena’s mouth, made bolder when Serena smiles, turns her head, decides that this is what her vacation is about, what it’s for. She kisses Bernie, kisses her again and again, only stops when Sian’s bawdy whoop sounds in the distance. 

“I knew you liked that bartender!” she hoots, so loud on the quiet street, and Serena bites her lip, rests her forehead against Bernie’s shoulder, tries to hide her laughter in the other woman’s body. 

“You like me, do you?” Bernie says, tipping up Serena’s chin, a smile on her face. “Go on, go back to your friend. Corfu’s not that big, when it comes down to it. We’ll see each other again.” She kisses Serena again, soft and sweet, a good night kiss, one that holds a promise for kisses in the future. Serena walks away, her pace quickening slightly when Bernie gives her an urging pat to the rump, making a peal of laughter escape from her lips. 

“You’ve got quite the story to spill, Serena Ballerina,” Sian says, threading her arm through Serena’s when she’s in close enough range. “And it’s a bit of a walk back to the hotel, so you can start talking now.”

-

She and Bernie do seem to run into each other throughout the rest of the week, always in the evenings, after Bernie’s work for the day is done. Once she appears at the breakfast buffet, sits next to Serena as she eats a plateful of eggs, spears a piece of bacon off her plate. It’s at once endlessly lovely and never enough, because Serena wishes she could spend every minute of her vacation with Bernie, every second. 

They don’t get a proper good-bye, in the end. Serena lingers at a bar on the last night, hopes to see that blonde dandelion head appear, stays until it’s much too late, until even Sian is complaining. Bernie hadn’t made specific plans, there was nothing set in stone, but she’d hoped that somehow Bernie would just _know_ , that she’d appear. 

It’s with a bit of a heavy heart that Serena packs up her bag, swimsuits, shorts, all the little things that have scattered themselves about the room over their week. She has a brief hope that she’ll see Bernie running after their taxi to the airport, or that she’ll chase them down as they go to the gate, some grand romantic gesture. 

Bernie doesn’t appear, and Serena gets on the plane, shoves her bag in the overhead compartment and settles into her window seat, looking out at the tarmac, willing herself to put her vacation romance - her vacation fling - behind her. She’s got her training to look towards now, returning to medicine, ending this particular chapter of frivolity.

She’s twirling a lock of hair with her finger when a voice interrupts her reverie: “Come here often?” Even though she’s only known her a week, Bernie’s voice is unmistakable, burned into her brain, indelible. 

“What- How - Why -” No question comes out fully formed as Serena watches Bernie settle into the seat, buckle her belt around her trim waist. Her mouth is open, she can’t quite find the the words she wants to say, the things she wants to ask. “What’re you doing here?” she finally manages, when Bernie’s sitting next to her, looking at her with expectant eyes. 

“Flying to London - why, what are you doing?” Serena can’t contain the eyeroll, even pinches Bernie’s thigh in retaliation. Bernie huffs a laugh, bats Serena’s hand away. “I was always booked on this flight, just wasn’t sure I was going.”

Serena wants to ask what changed her mind, wants to hope that she’s the reason Bernie’s coming back to London, wants to make plans to see her, to date her, to do everything with her, but just bites her lip, holds it all inside, then manages a thin sort of smile. “I’m glad you’re here.”

They sit in easy silence as the plane taxis, Serena’s hand subconsciously gripping Bernie’s as the plane takes flight, a nervous habit she’s never quite been able to shake. And when they’ve been in the air for a bit, Bernie bumps Serena’s shoulder, their hands still clasped.

“Have you...heard of the Mile High Club?” Bernie asks, a smirk on her face. Serena just giggles her response, it sounds so tawdry, ridiculous, but so arousing at the same time. She buries her face in Bernie’s shoulder, doesn’t given a real answer. “You’re on vacation until the plane lands, I think.” That doesn’t make Serena’s giggles abate at all, her body shaking against Bernie’s, only slowing at the feeling of Bernie’s warm arm coming around her shoulder, holding her, the feeling of Bernie’s smiling mouth pressed against her hair. 

She thinks about the unspoken things in Bernie’s words, that perhaps Bernie is just as worried that it’ll all come to a halt when real life resumes. So she summons her bravery, her hope, and looks up at Bernie, her eyes open and warm.

“I think this is a bit more than just a vacation fling?” Serena asks, heart in her throat, worried that she’s gone too far, worried that she hasn’t gone far enough, the fear worth it all if Bernie will just say yes, if Bernie just nods. 

What Bernie does is kiss her, long and deep. When they pull apart, she brushes a finger down the ridge of Serena’s nose, pausing at her lips, touching her chin with something akin to reverence. “I think it is,” she says softly, moving her finger so she can lean in to kiss Serena once more.


	6. oh to see a mountain covered with a quilt of snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as always, jess says "what if you wrote this" and then i say "hey what if i did"

Serena carefully folds her sweaters, her wool trousers, thermals. She rolls socks together, tucks them in spare shoes. It's a comforting routine, easy, mindless, her hands doing the tasks her brain doesn't even have to think about. 

"Ellie? Are you packed?" she calls, hears nothing in reply, though she's used to her daughter's recalcitrance. Elinor has spent a great amount of energy moaning about her mother coming along to babysit on the school ski trip, she's hardly happy about the fact that Serena's coming too. 

Serena sighs, flips the lid of her suitcase closed, leans against it on her hands, a momentary release, a cessation in being strong as she allows herself to lean on something else.

The moment passes, and she zips the suitcase shut, lifts it off the bed in a fluid motion, wheeling it down the hallway, pausing in her daughter's doorway. "Elinor?" she says, a soft tap against the doorframe.

"I'm packed!" Elinor answers, her response not at all calibrated to reply to the question she's been asked. Serena peers into the room, sees the disarray of clothes spread around, the unmade bed, and in the middle of it all, a duffel stuffed to the brim. It's typical teenager behavior, she's been told, what she should expect, the battle every mother has to fight. It just feels like she's had to fight exceptionally hard lately. 

"We'll leave soon, to meet everyone for the coach ride," she says softly, not willing to argue, to scold. She gets an affirmative grunt in response, and makes her way down the stairs, her suitcase bumping along, jostling her arm as she goes. 

She doesn't even remember how she was roped into chaperoning, if she's honest. Maybe agreeing to something at a parents' meeting where she wasn't quite paying attention, answering an email without reading everything written there. But regardless, she's here, going along with Elinor's school as they all go skiing, her main job to ensure they don't go bombing hills while bombed on booze, keeping boys out of girls rooms and so on. She does remember one mother saying, wryly, from the corner of the room, "What about girls who fancy each other?" 

The question got no answer, just a sputtering teacher wanting to move on to a less awkward topic. Serena just had a private chuckle, scanned the room for the question asker, just saw a mop of blonde hair, fringe hiding her facial features. 

Serena stands by the door, waiting for Ellie's footsteps, heavy on the stairs, her duffel thumping as she's not even bothered to lift the thing. There's terse silence as they load their luggage into the boot. 

"Just think, in a few minutes, we'll be surrounded by loads of your friends and you won't have to speak to me at all," Serena says, fiddling with the radio, anything to break the silence. 

When they pull into the carpark, the coach is already there, sides lifted up for luggage to be loaded on, a flurry of teenagers running about, excited to be going on a trip. Ellie vanishes from Serena's side the minute the car doors are unlocked, so Serena just makes her way to the group of weary looking adults, assuming they are like her, coerced chaperones. She recognizes a few faces, Caleb's dad and Georgia's mum, nods hellos to them, wishing desperately she'd thought to bring a coffee.

As if on cue, another mother pops up, drink carrier in hand, coffees for the lot of them. "Strong and hot, one for each of you," she says, and Serena grabs for one gratefully, not even worried that she doesn't know this stranger's name, has never seen her before, the need for caffeine outweighing any shame she might feel.

"Been through this grind before, have you?" she asks, when the parents have moved aside a bit, when it's just her and the other mum. She sips at the coffee, bracing against the heat, loving the feeling of the warm cup against her chilly palms. 

"Once or twice. My daughter likes to have me along, she says." Serena thinks she recognizes the blonde hair of the brazen question-asker from the parents' meeting, recognizes the husky voice for certain. 

"My daughter couldn't be more upset that I'm along," Serena laughs, then holds out her hand. "Serena Campbell. It's a pleasure to meet you, o bringer of caffeine and warmth." 

The other woman's hand slides into her own, easy as a glove. "Quite a title you've given me, but I'll settle for Bernie for daily use," she says, squeezing Serena's hands, her palms slightly rough, her eyes soft and kind.

"Who's your daughter?" Serena asks, still holding onto Bernie's hand, forgetting to let go because of how comfortable it feels, how natural. 

"Charlotte. Tall blonde over there, acting like a ringleader. Don't know where she gets it from." Bernie tilts her head in the direction of a giggling group of girls, the tallest one a carbon copy of Bernie, her laugh loud and braying, making Bernie wince a bit. "That laugh, though, that she got from me."

"Oh, my Ellie must just hate her. Beautiful and popular and all," Serena says with a laugh, and drops their joined hands, realizing all at once how long they've been holding hands, her cheeks pinking up. 

Bernie just shrugs, slightly awkward, dropping her gaze from Serena's. She shuffles her feet slightly as if casting about for a topic of conversation. They're both saved from a moment of discomfort as a teacher shouts for boarding, and the mass of students make a bottleneck, trying to funnel through the door of the coach.

"Seat buddies?" Serena asks, pushing through any uncomfortable moments, too grateful to find a woman her own age to talk to on this silly trip to have any sort of chagrin.

Bernie blushes a little, but nods, moving towards the end of the slowly moving line. "Window or aisle?" she asks, checking over her shoulder, as if to make sure Serena's followed, that she's still there. 

"Oh, window I think. If you don't mind." Bernie shakes her head. An amiable traveling companion, then. Serena does feel lucky.

When they're all settled in their seats, the engine sputtering into life, the coach rumbling down the road, one of the teacher chaperones stands to hand out room assignments, accompanied by both groans and cheers. "We did our best, loves," the upbeat teacher says, not bothered in the least by the students' complaints.

She comes to Bernie and Serena with a benevolent smile. "How lucky, you two are rooming together too! Last year, we accidentally put two mums who hated each other in the same room. Heard about it for _weeks_." She laughs and pats Bernie's shoulder, making Bernie blush once more, and Serena wonders at the dichotomy of this woman's personal shyness but her facial openness. 

The ride isn't all that long, Serena thinks she dozes for a minute, wakes herself up with a small snore and can't help but think of Elinor's sheer embarrassment at the fact of her mother snoring on a school trip. She smiles shyly, looks at Bernie, who grins back, her face kind and lovely. 

"Easy to fall asleep with the rhythm of the coach," she says, the road making them both jostle, their arms bumping.

On the rest of the ride, Serena learns that Bernie was in the military, that she's no longer on duty, that she missed so much of her children's lives that they want her around all the more now, to make up for lost time. 

"Makes me wonder what Ellie'd be like, if I wasn't single parenting her all her life," Serena says a bit wistfully. “If we had a bit of distance.” There’s a little embarrassment, she doesn’t mean she wants to be sent across the ocean to risk her life in the army, but she barrels on with their conversation, doesn’t let the moment lie between them. 

She gleans that, like her, Bernie is divorced, but hasn't gathered why, isn't willing to push, doesn't need to push. Bernie will tell her if she wants her to know. Serena talks about being a surgeon, making time to be a mother amid all that, and Bernie hums her understanding. Serena dares to hope she's found a kindred spirit.

The rest of the trip is uneventful, Bernie’s daughter popping up to the front of the bus just to say a hello, to check on Bernie. Serena feels a bit wistful as she watches their blonde heads bent together, smiles on each of their faces when they move apart. She cranes her head around the seat backs, tries to catch a glimpse of Elinor. She thinks she manages to see the tell-tale eyes rolling and the flip of a red ponytail that tell her that her daughter is exactly as expected.

When they get to the ski lodge, a sprawling, beautiful building, covered in snow, picturesque in every sense of the word, Serena and Bernie are tasked with making sure every person gets their luggage off the bus, no stray bags in the coach, no suitcases underneath. Serena pulls Ellie’s duffel bag, hands it to her with a smile, gets a muttered “Thanks,” in return. 

“That’s your daughter, then?” Bernie asks, watching Elinor walk away, bag slung over her shoulder. Serena nods. “She takes after you. Pretty.” This comment from Bernie’s lips makes her blush again, though it’s hard to tell what’s due to cold and what’s due to embarassment. 

When the coach is emptied, nothing left behind, Bernie and Serena check in, a desk attendant handing them keys with a smile. “Nice to see a couple coming to stay,” she chirps. “Your room is on the third floor, one queen bed. Call down if there’s anything you need, spare towels, more shampoo, whatever you like!” She makes as if to turn away, but Serena puts out a hand, stops her.

“Ah, there’s been a mistake,” she says, “We’re not - not that it matters - it’s just - did you say one bed?” She stutters, fumbles with her words, doesn’t want to offend Bernie with the idea that being romantically linked to her is abhorrent in any way, but also can’t imagine that Bernie wants to spend a few nights sharing a bed with a crotchety fifty year-old either.

The desk attendant’s face freezes, falls. “Oh, I’m sorry. When they made the reservation, they just said a room for two mums and I assumed - I’m sorry!” She taps at the keyboard, her brow furrowed. “We’re also fully booked up, what with the school trip and all.” Her face is a mask of worry as she looks up at Serena and Bernie, almost shrinking from them as if she’s preparing to be yelled at. 

Serena looks at Bernie, who just shrugs, and then she looks back at the young woman in front of them. “Third floor, you said?” she asks, and gets a silent nod in return. “Right. And I think you can just go ahead and send us some spare towels now. Perhaps a complimentary bottle of wine, red, if I can be so bold.” There’s another nod, and Serena turns away, a smooth movement, wheeling her bag towards the elevators.

“Quite an exit, Ms. Campbell,” Bernie says in a low voice, following close behind, close enough that Serena can feel an exhalation of breath against her neck. “Nice touch with the wine.”

“Well, it’s the least they can do, inconveniencing us. Not that - I’m fine kipping together, I just - it’s just - never miss an opportunity for free wine, I say,” she finishes rather lamely, pushing the button, watching the numbers above the doors dwindle down as the elevator comes to the lobby. 

“I’m fine sharing too, Serena,” Bernie says, a little smile playing around her lips, the doors opening with a ding. She gestures Serena onto the lift first, follows after and pushes the round three, lighting it up. 

The room is not small, exactly, but it is dominated by the bed - the one bed. Serena stands in the door, watching Bernie move through the room. She’s shared a bed before, at university, a few times with Sian when they’ve both been too plastered to make it home. She can’t shake the feeling that there’s something a bit different about this, but she isn’t sure of what. 

“Do you have a side?” Bernie asks, dropping her bag on the floor, looking back over her shoulder at Serena. 

“Not since I’ve been divorced. Didn’t think it was healthy to have a side when there was no one on the other side,” she says, “but if pressed, I’ll take the side closer to the window.” Bernie nods her acquiescence, sits on the other side of the bed, pulls her low-heeled boots off, lets them fall to the floor as she swings her legs up onto the mattress. 

Serena, on the other hand, steps out of her shoes and neatly lines them up next to the television stand, wheels her suitcase to the luggage rack, unzips it and begins taking her clothes out, arranging them into the drawers of the bureau, hanging her coat up in the closet, doing all the things she does in a hotel to make it a bit homey. She’s aware of Bernie’s eyes on her, aware of being watched, but doesn’t feel shame in her movements, is comfortable enough with how she is. 

“You like to nest,” Bernie says when Serena’s finished, when she perches on the corner of the bed, just close enough to Bernie that she could reach out and touch her feet if she wanted. Serena stares at her socks, mismatched, and just nods. She feels like Bernie is tacitly pointing out their differences, doesn’t know what to make of it. 

“I like to feel settled,” Serena rephrases, and Bernie nods, like it makes sense, like she gets it. There’s a quiet about the room, a quiet between them, threading across the distance between their bodies like a spider spinning a web. “What’s on our schedule for this evening?” she asks, breaking the stillness, and Bernie shuffles the papers in the folder all the parents were given. 

“Dinner in the main restaurant in about twenty minutes. We’re going to get all the lodge rules and what not to do, I expect,” Bernie says. “And then nothing again until morning. Our night for room checks is tomorrow.”

Room checks. How dreadfully prosaic and stupid, Serena thinks, remembering all the ways she and Sian eluded the watchful eyes of parents on school trips, sneaking alcohol, tiptoeing across hallways into other rooms. She remembers one eventful time when they played a rousing game of spin the bottle, ending with her kissing Lavinia Peters, a beautiful blonde in the year above her, to much hooting and hollering for the boys, which is what got the attention of the chaperones, in the end. She hasn’t thought about kissing Lavinia in years, can’t think what’s brought it to mind now. Looking up from her hands, folded in her lap, she catches Bernie’s eyes, feels a blush spill across her cheeks. 

“Right, well. Can never be too early, I suppose,” Serena says, standing, brushing imaginary lint from her trousers. Bernie’s got a look of confusion on her face, like something’s changed but she hasn’t quite caught onto what yet. But she follows Serena, slipping one of the room keys into the pocket of her impossibly tight jeans, and they make their way back to the elevator. 

“Maybe the wine will be waiting for us when we get back,” Bernie says, leaning into Serena conspiratorially, and Serena feels heat crawling up her neck, just smiles a tight little smile and moves away when the elevator doors open on the second floor. Elinor is standing there, with a few of her friends, Bernie’s daughter Charlotte behind them, already smiling at the sight of her mum. 

“I’ll take the next one,” Ellie says loudly and Serena just rolls her eyes, moves her hand to the “Door Close” button, but Bernie halts her fingers.

“Room enough for everyone,” she says, with a pointed look at Elinor and gestures the waiting girls onto the elevator. There’s a moment where Serena can see that her daughter is weighing her options, deciding how much of a stink to make, whether or not it will be embarrassing. Instead, she settles for a slight flounce as she walks onto the elevator, her friends following suit, eyes wide like they’re not sure what the power struggle is about. 

Charlotte gets on last, bumps against her mother’s shoulder with a smile. “Room all right?” she asks and Bernie nods. “Mine too. It’s cozy here.” Bernie nods again, and Serena can feel the tension radiating from her, like she’s nervous to be too chummy with her daughter, and Serena doesn’t know if that’s because of Elinor or because of her, but wants to make it better for Bernie, the way Bernie’s made things better for her, even in this short space of time. 

“It’s like something out of the movies,” she says to Charlotte, who grins at Serena, the same beautiful sunshine spilling out of her that seems contained inside Bernie. “Just hoping it’s not out of a Poirot, wouldn’t want to be trapped in a murder mystery on top of a mountain.” That gets a proper laugh from Charlotte and even an appreciative chuckle from Bernie. Elinor just stands, facing the doors stonily, spilling out as fast as she can when they open on the ground floor. 

“Your daughter’s lovely,” Serena says to Bernie after Charlotte darts away after the other girls. Bernie nods, smiles.

“I’m lucky. I was away so much, it makes Cam, my eldest, a little angry with me sometimes. But Lottie? She was mad, fuming, icy even, at first, but then it all melted and she’s been nothing but happy to have me around, wants me around. Even through the divorce, she’s assured me it’s not my fault, even stayed with me the first few nights when I moved into a flat on my own.” Bernie looks wistfully after her daughter, her blonde ponytail just visible, bouncing, the same buttery color as her mother’s. 

“I think Elinor blames me for the divorce. Or at least blames me for the fact that she doesn’t get to live with the parent who spoils her anymore.” Serena surprises herself, this isn’t a topic she talks about with anyone, not usually, and she’s not even known Bernie a day, yet it all comes spilling out of her. 

“Well, that’s the blessing of having two, I suppose. One kid’s bound to be on your side,” Bernie says wryly, startling a laugh from Serena. They walk into the main dining area, the school group shuttered off to a few of the tables on the side. There’s no rhyme or reason to seating, so Bernie sits opposite to Serena at the head of one of the tables.

Serena wishes she had the free wine during the tedious dinner, where rules are laid out, restricting the teens to their rooms after ten o’clock, discouraging fraternization, placing a ban on alcohol. It seems endless, all the things they’re telling them not to do. It’s no wonder they all look bored and angry. She leans towards the students sitting next to her and says in a low whisper, “My rule is, do anything you want just don’t get caught. Be smart.” She gets an incredulous look back, but she just nods. 

She does like rules and order, it’s true, but she’s never been one to have rules purely for the sake of having them. She wasn’t always the perfect one, the model prefect, but she got those accolades because she knew how to bend the rules, how to get away with things, to skirt the line of disobeying authority. She thinks that’s one of the things that has made her such a good administrator now. 

Bernie coughs, catching Serena’s eye again, and Serena shrugs. “It’s what I did in my day,” she says. “Besides, I’d rather talk to them about what they _can_ do, not what they can’t.” She gets a shy smile from the girl sitting next to Bernie, beams warmly back. Another thing she’s learned? Being the parent that kids trust means you’re the parent they tell when things get bad. Even Elinor tells her when it’s gotten to be a bit too much for her to handle. 

Dinner isn’t the best she’s ever been served, but it isn’t the worst either. She tries to talk to people other than Bernie, but finds her attention keeps going back to the other woman, wanting to see her reaction to things, wanting to see what she’s going to say next. When it’s over, it’s a relief, a relief to know that she doesn’t have to be on her best behavior any longer, that she can escape back to her room with Bernie, that there’s a chance of a bottle of wine waiting for them. She might even have a soak in the tub, wash the day of bus travel from her skin.

“We barely did anything and I’m exhausted,” Bernie grouses as they head back up to the room, kept even later after dinner to be given the list of chaperone responsibilities verbally once more. She slouches against the wall of the elevator and Serena finds the tiniest bit of temptation to just lean against her. 

But the bell dings, the doors open, and the moment is broken. They walk to their room in silence, the hush only broken by the sound of the key in the lock, and then a guffaw from Bernie that sounds like an asthmatic donkey. “They brought us some wine,” she says, moving out of the way so Serena can fully enter the room. On the small table, there are six bottles of wine, a small card placed in front of them. “Lucky there’s no rule about chaperones having alcohol.” 

Serena flips open the card, a generic message apologizing for the mistake, hoping they’ll be comfortable for the rest of the stay, that the school will return to the lodge in the future. “They think I have a lot more sway than I actually do,” she says with a chuckle, setting the card down again, touching the tops of the bottles with her fingers. “I’d say we should open one tonight but we’re both too tired to enjoy it properly. I’m just...going to have a bit of a soak, if that’s all right, before lights out?” Bernie absently hums her assent, her duffel bag on the bed, her head practically stuffed inside as she hunts around for something. 

Serena takes one of the fluffy extra towels into the en suite and starts the tap flowing, steam rising quickly, and she feels the warmth down to her toes. Shedding her clothes, she steps into the bath, her skin pinking immediately, and she can feel the tension leaving her shoulders, feels a sense of relaxation settle there instead. 

It’s only after she’s finished, when the water’s cooled a bit, that she realizes all her clothes are in the main room, that she’ll have to walk around in naught but a towel. “We’re both adults,” she mutters, scraping fingers through her wet hair. 

She thinks she sees Bernie’s eyes widen slightly as she steps out into the bedroom, the cool air hitting her damp skin, making goosepimples erupt all along her arms and legs. Serena just gives her a tiny, awkward smile, and turns to fuss in the dresser, pulling out her pajama set, plaid flannels that Elinor scoffed at in the shop. She pulls the bottoms on with the towel still tightly lodged in place, only letting it fall to the ground when the drawstring’s been tightly tied at her waist. She tries not to think of Bernie’s eyes on her bare back as she pulls the shirt on, buttoning it up with nimble, surgeon’s fingers. 

Bernie’s already in bed, a faded army t-shirt and glasses perched on her nose as she props a book in her lap. Serena slides under the covers next to her, fumbles with her phone a bit, sends a good night text to Elinor and then turns it on silent, stares up at the ceiling. A few moments pass, and then Bernie shuts her book, and Serena can hear the sound of her placing her glasses, her novel, on the bedstand next to her, the lamp clicking off. 

Serena feels the mattress shift as Bernie slides down, thinks she can feel Bernie next to her, just across the middle of the bed. She tries to soften her breathing, is suddenly self-conscious of her every movement. “You could’ve kept reading,” she says into the darkness, thinks about turning on her side to face the other woman.

“I finished the chapter,” Bernie says and her voice sounds sleepy, soft, and Serena wonders what it sounds like in the morning. She supposes she’ll find out. 

-

When Serena wakes the next day, she takes a moment before opening her eyes to remind herself where she is, the ski lodge on a school trip. There’s still a moment of disorientation as she feels a warm body beneath her cheek, a weight at her waist. Her eyelashes flutter against soft skin, and Serena bolts up, away, realizing that sometime during the night, she and Bernie gravitated towards the middle of the bed, towards each other.

“Hold over from my married days, I suppose,” she chuckles, trying to mitigate any awkwardness Bernie might feel, moving away, putting as much distance between herself and Bernie as she can, promptly falling off the bed in the process.

“Did you do that when you were married too?” Bernie says, leaning over, her head just visible over the mattress. Serena closes her eyes, wishes the embarrassment away, rubs at the back of her scalp where it hit the floor. 

“Only when I was very stupid,” she says, half to herself, and Bernie’s head disappears from view. She comes around the side of the bed, holds a hand out to Serena, which she grasps gratefully, allows Bernie to be pull her up. “Thanks,” she mutters but doesn’t look at Bernie, knows she’ll only see confusion or concern in her eyes and doesn’t particularly want to entertain either emotion.

“I’ll just...shower,” Bernie says, slipping her hand from Serena’s and disappearing into the bathroom. 

Serena dresses quickly, escapes to the breakfast buffet before she bears witness to the sight of Bernie in naught but a towel. She’s not sure she can quite take it, feels her cheeks flushing at just the thought of it, and she tries to remember the last time she was this wrong-footed, thinks it might have been when she and Edward were first dating. 

Holding a mug of coffee between her hands, she sighs, looks down at the steam rising, breathes in the smell, the aroma hitting her senses with as much force as caffeine itself. If she’s honest, truly honest, she knows why she thought about Lavinia Peters last night, why Bernie makes her feel fluttery inside. It was a part of herself she thought might never see the light of day, and can’t help snorting into her drink. “Making a go of it at fifty?” It sounds ridiculous as she mutters it. She’s too old to try something new. 

But she can’t deny the way her heart lifts when Bernie slides into the seat across from her with a plate full of food, hair still damp, a bit of toothpaste just above her lip. Before she can stop herself, Serena’s leaned over, rubbed it right off with her thumb, not a thought in her head except the feel of Bernie’s skin against her finger. It’s only when Bernie tenses slightly that Serena realizes what she’s done.

“Toothpaste,” is all she says, and stares down at her coffee once more, rubbing her thumb against her thigh, trying to replicate the feeling of the soft space above Bernie’s mouth. 

“Ready to get out on the slopes?” Bernie asks, too loud, too energetic, overcompensating for whatever it is that Serena is doing, not that Serena herself could even define it. 

But Serena recognizes the lifeline she’s been offered and hangs onto it with all her might. “I am - a bit nervous, been a while. But they say it’s like riding a bicycle, yes?” Bernie nods, bites into her toast, spraying crumbs around the table. 

As it turns out, it’s nothing like riding a bicycle. Serena’s center of gravity has shifted a bit since the last time she was on skis, she finds she’s not quite as flexible as she once was, feeling the creak of her joints as she leans down to buckle her own boots. Bernie is there, faster than Serena can see, bending down like some sort of Prince Charming to help her into the footwear. When she looks up at Serena, blonde hair falling off her face, smile crimping her cheeks, Serena feels a swoop in her chest, like a seabird dropping down to pick up a fish from the ocean.

But they make it onto the lift, skis clacking against each other, and Serena feels the tell-tale nerves in her stomach as she thinks about the timing, the moment when she will have to step off. Unknowingly, she grasps Bernie’s hand, warm through her knit glove, only realizing what she’s done when she squeezes hard, feels an answering squeeze back.

“We’ve got this,” Bernie says, like they’re a team, like they’re in it together, and Serena feels her anxiety lessen, her chest ease. They don’t let go of each other’s hands, not until they’ve both stepped off the ski lift and are standing at the top of the mountain in the gleaming sun. 

“Mum!” Charlotte’s voice is clear as she slides across the snow, gliding towards them. “Did you just get up here? I’ve been down twice already!” Her cheeks are pink and lovely, and Serena finds herself impatient to see Bernie’s face flushed from excitement and cold. She watches Bernie and her daughter chat away, jealous of how easy it looks. And then, in a flourish, Charlotte pushes herself down the slopes, her ponytail waving behind.

Bernie turns, must catch the wistful look on Serena’s face. “It didn’t come easy,” she says. “Maybe the distance is what helped us.” Serena finds it strange, wonderful, unnerving, how well Bernie seems to know her already. She just nods, feels her eyes watering a bit, knows she can blame it on the wind. 

As if she can sense Serena’s discomfort, Bernie’s face splits into a smile, a cheeky grin. “Race you to the bottom? Last one down has to buy drinks?” Before Serena can answer, Bernie’s pushed off and it takes a second before her reflexes take over, but Serena flies down after her, experience rushing back as her knees bend slightly, as she feels the movement of the skis all through her thighs. 

She’s done this before, done it well, and she’s able to pass Bernie, make up those few seconds of delay, laughs as she does, enjoying the cold air against her face, the freedom she feels. It’s wonderful, amazing, she feels an unfamiliar joy take over. 

When she skids to a stop, her poles digging into the snow, she slides to the left, can look up at the snow behind her, sees Bernie, snow spraying up behind her. She’s moving too fast still, even Serena can see that, vainly tries to shuffle herself forward, out of the way. Instead, she sees Bernie, stuttering closer and closer, face a mask of worry, and then they collide, a pile of limbs and skis in a snowbank. 

Serena can feel Bernie’s hair against her cheek, she can feel Bernie’s breath against her ear, and she can feel Bernie’s body pressed against her own. Her heart is beating in her chest, wild and erratic and she knows her face is red, she knows her pupils must be dilated, and she knows that if she turns just slightly, Bernie’s lips would graze against her own.

“God, Mum.” Serena hears the dulcet, ever-sarcastic tones of her daughter. “I thought you knew how to ski.” 

Bernie stiffens, pulls back so she’s up on her knees, their legs still tangled together, long skis overlapping, her hands pressed against her thighs, fingers digging in slightly, like she’s tense, like she’s trying to calm herself. “I’m fine,” she says softly to Bernie. “No need to worry.” She remembers early skiing days, not quite being able to stop herself as she’d like to, the embarrassment of running into someone. 

Bernie nods tightly, her expression shifting and she looks up at Elinor, standing over them with a look of slight distaste on her face. “Your mum is quite the skier - beat me down the hill quite handily. It was me that knocked her over.” Elinor just sniffs slightly, pulling at the ends of her scarf, and walks away. 

“She grows on you,” Serena offers, embarrassed that her daughter was rude, embarrassed to be caught in a tangle of limbs with Bernie, embarrassed to be even the slightest bit aroused by their proximity. 

“She’s a teenager,” Bernie says, by way of acceptance, allowance, explanation. She delicately begins the work of untangling their legs and skis, no mean feat, and the touch of her hand against Serena’s calf sends a tingle throughout her body, and her shiver has nothing to do with the cold air around them. 

“Drinks are on you, then,” she says, when they’re standing once more.

“Better hope I don’t fall again, because then drinks might very well be on you.” Bernie says this with a half chuckle, a sort of barking sound, an echoing hint of the laugh Serena’s heard expelled from her daughter. She laughs too, more of a high-pitched, breathy giggle, a sound that makes her think of the days when she was Elinor’s age and trying to flirt with a boy, and it all makes her face go red again. 

“Going again?” she asks, and Bernie shakes her head, says she’s willing to stay at the bottom and watch the master at work, and Serena thinks she’s never spent as much time blushing as she does when she’s in the presence of Bernie Wolfe. 

Serena rides the lift again all the way up, every sensation familiar now, the memories of skiing coming back to her now, the way her body moves, the way the snow feels sliding against her skis, her hands rhythmically moving her poles. She loves it, remembers happy skiing weekends with her mother, school trips, just a flush of nostalgia and comfort suffusing her as she moves down the slopes.

Bernie skis again, a little more tentative, a little more carefully. “Sometimes I feel like a baby giraffe just learning to walk,” she says ruefully, when they’re stood at the top of a mountain together, sticking one pole into the snow to free her hand up to scrape her hair back from her face. She struggles, and Serena reaches out to brush the fringe back, tucks it into her stocking cap. 

“There,” she says, and looks at Bernie’s face, mouth slightly open, breath whorling out from her mouth, her dark eyes searching Serena’s face. “One more run and then drinks?” She feels breathless while trying desperately to act casual. Without waiting for Bernie’s answer, she begins to push herself down, hears the sound of Bernie beginning her run as well. 

The inside of the lodge is a welcome respite from the cold, Serena feeling suddenly like her feet are weightless as she no longer has the weight of the boots and the skis attached. There’s a cozy fire crackling merrily away, the windowpanes dusted with snow on the outside, everything has a rosy, glowing tinge to it. Bernie follows her in, close enough that Serena can feel her at her back. 

“Bar?” she asks, and Bernie nods mutely. As Serena tries to elegantly perch herself on a stool, Bernie simply mounts hers in one fluid motion, a sight Serena thinks she may end up replaying in her head time and time again. 

The red wine Serena orders is a far cry from shiraz, but she still finds warmth in it, feels filled from it, inside out, the way wine always makes her feel, an alcohol-infused hug. Bernie has a glass of whisky, two fingers worth, one ice cube, makes a bracing face with every sip. “Never quite found the taste for that,” she says, pointing at Bernie’s drink. 

“Spend enough time in the desert, and anything tastes good after a while,” Bernie says, holds the glass up, the golden liquid catching the light, sending shadows on the bar. “It tastes the most like home.” Serena smiles at that, soft, and gently nudges Bernie’s shoulder. It makes sense, now, whisky, a sentimental choice, another layer of Bernie excavated. 

Drinks flow into dinner, and Serena wishes for the first time that she was on a ski vacation without a hoard of teenagers about. The food is standard, nothing special, the slight buzz from her wine buoying her through as she hears giggling and talking about boys and who was mean to who and on and on. She catches Bernie’s eye, two tables away, separated by chaperoning necessity, and smiles. Bernie rolls her eyes and shrugs in answer, and Serena just nods, inwardly marveling at the communication they’ve developed, so soon, so quickly, so easily. 

“Would be nice to be able to put on my nightclothes,” Serena says, when they’re back in the room, “but I doubt Elinor would be pleased if I cropped up in her friends’ rooms, bra-less and hair all a mess.”

“It’s not so bad,” Bernie says, and Serena is about to ask what she means by that, then remembers that Bernie’s seen her at night, seen her with sleep-mussed hair, feels the ever-lurking blush pop up on her cheeks once more. Bernie seems slightly embarrassed too, doesn’t look at Serena’s eyes, busies herself with the corner of the quilt, turned down by the lodge staff, a chocolate gleaming in silver paper on each pillow. 

Room checks are relatively painless, just an eyeroll from Elinor and a huffy sigh. Serena feels certain there is quite a lot happening behind closed doors, that the students all know the best way to hide what they’re doing, that this isn’t their first time at the concealing things from chaperones rodeo. 

Charlotte asks Bernie something in a low voice when they get to her room, and Bernie just blushes and shakes her head, won’t tell Serena what the question was when she asks, her face still flushed. 

By the time they make it back to their room, the combination of wine and dinner and patrolling rooms has made Serena feel pleasantly sleepy. She brushes her teeth, washes her face, does it all with Bernie next to her, sharing the sink. It’s natural, domestic, and when she changes into her pajamas, she doesn’t even close the door, doesn’t even think about it when she strips her jumper off. She doesn’t know if it’s because she’s so tired or so comfortable with the other woman.

They don’t make such an effort to put a great deal of distance between their bodies, Serena notices. She isn’t hugging the edge of the bed, isn’t cataloging Bernie’s every movement. Instead, she can feel Bernie’s arm against her own, knows that she could move her fingers just so and grasp Bernie’s hand. The knowledge that she could do it feels enough for now, and she turns onto her side, pillowing her head on her hand, and looks at Bernie’s profile in the dim light from the moon. 

As if Bernie can sense Serena’s eyes on her, she turns her face, one half in darkness now, and looks at Serena with those deep, questioning eyes. “It’s...a little cold,” Serena stutters out into the night, and sees the ends of Bernie’s mouth curl up, her hair rustling against the pillow as she nods. 

They don’t talk about it, don’t ascribe any further meaning to it, but Serena moves infintesimally closer to Bernie, feels an arm come up around her waist, her eyes fluttering closed as she slides cold toes between Bernie’s calves. 

Serena isn’t sure what time it is when there’s a knock on the door, a frantic sounding knock that repeats over and over. It’s a bit of a process, disentangling herself from Bernie - somehow in sleep, they’ve become even more intertwined, but she manages, stumbles as her foot hits the floor, lets out an expletive that wakes Bernie. 

“What is it?” she asks groggily, and Serena thinks at any other time, she might appreciate the sight of Bernie with bedhead and sleepworn eyes, but the knocking persists, and suddenly Bernie is on alert, the major taking over, military precision overruling any sleepy haze. “Want me to answer?”

Serena appreciates the show of chivalry, but shakes her head, peers through the peephole, and sees her daughter standing there, hair in a messy ponytail, eyes wild, expression distant, and she knows the girl’s been drinking. She opens the door quickly, Elinor’s hand almost falling against her mother as she attempts to knock against the door that is no longer there. “What is it, Ellie?” she asks, as stern as she can be, looking down her nose at the daughter that’s almost her height.

“Megan - she’s, I don’t know, she’s sick?” The words are slurred, heavy in Elinor’s mouth. “Can you come?” It’s plaintive, it’s sad, it’s worried, and it melts Serena’s heart. She nods, reaches in the closet by the door for the lodge-provided bathrobe and wraps it around herself. 

“Bernie? I’m just headed to Elinor’s room. I’ll be back,” she calls, sees Elinor craning her neck to look into the room. 

“Are you sharing a _bed_?” she asks incredulously, and Serena just closes the door behind her, doesn’t bother to answer the question, to offer any sort of explanation. She puts her arm around Elinor’s shoulder, an iron grip, and steers her back down the hallway, back to her room. 

The door is still open, the latch keeping it from shutting all the way, so Serena pushes it open. “Megan?” she says, her voice warm and understanding, the tone she uses with patients, the bedside manner that has earned her commendations. She hears retching in the bathroom, and sighs, grateful at least that the girl has managed to get to a non-carpeted surface.

“Get some ice, Ellie,” she says, tries not to sound too stern, too upset, knows that’s the last thing either girl needs. Elinor seems grateful for the task, grasps the empty ice bucket in both hands and scurries on her way. Serena unbelts the robe, leaves it at the door to the bathroom, is sure that this is nothing more than too much alcohol on an empty stomach, but knows how much a mother’s touch can mean at a time like this. 

So she sits on the floor next to Megan, a girl she’s only seen from afar when watching school plays or going to band concerts. She wipes the sweaty fringe from her face and murmurs that it will all be okay. When Elinor comes back, her own steps shaky, her breath smelling of alcohol, she sits on the cool tiles right next to her mother, leans her head against her shoulder, just like she did when she was younger. 

They sit that way for a long time, long enough that Megan calms, and Serena gives her a glass of water, rubs ice cubes against her neck. She puts them both back in their beds, pulls their covers up tight. Megan turns over under the quilt immediately, her eyes closed, and Serena gives her a pat to the shoulder before turning her attention back to Elinor. 

“Thank you for getting me,” she says, bending down to kiss Elinor’s forehead. There’s no reply, and Serena didn’t quite expect one, but feels let down a little all the same. “Drink lots of water,” she whispers in her daughter’s ear, strokes her hair back once more, and turns out the light.

Bernie is awake when she returns, the light on by their bed, her knees drawn up, her face worried. “Everything all right?” she asks, the wrinkles in her forehead fading at the sight of Serena. 

“Just the usual, haven’t quite learned how to hold their alcohol,” she says with a tired smile, sliding under the covers, not even bothering to come up with an excuse, not even saying a word, just waiting until Bernie lies down once more, then moves right in next to her, cheek on shoulder, hand on waist, feet in a tangle of toes. “Talk more tomorrow,” she says, her own words slurred now, though with sleep rather than alcohol, and she thinks she hears Bernie’s murmur of assent, feels their fingers twine together, but thinks it might just be a dream.

-

When Serena wakes up, she finds she’s alone, Bernie’s side of the bed cold. She lets out a small groan, a faint noise escaping her lips, and drops her head back against the pillow, supposes she actually will have to confront what it means to spend this trip cuddling with another woman, thinking about her hair, her eyes, the softness of her skin. She thinks she might’ve dreamed about kissing her, but the details are just wisps of thoughts, drifting away the more she’s awake. 

She takes her time getting up, getting ready, feeling a bit tired and achy from her midnight sojourn to her daughter’s room. A good chaperone would probably tell the teachers, but Serena’s never been one for tattling, especially in situations that often teach their own lessons. She sees Elinor at breakfast, her hair in a ragged braid, yawning, Megan leaning against her, dark rings around her eyes. Elinor smiles, small and secret, but it warms Serena’s heart, wraps around her like a hug, buoys her out onto the slopes. 

She doesn’t see Bernie most of the day, going down the hills as Bernie is riding the lift up, wonders how much of it is purposeful. Eventually, she decides to stay at the top of the mountain, waits for Bernie to come up once more, rubbing her hands together to stay warm. It isn’t long before Bernie appears, a look of slight surprise on her face at the sight of Serena there. 

“Long time no see,” Serena says, trying for a casual tone, smiling, the cold making her cheeks sore. “Missed you today.” Bernie just hums a response, noncommittal, nonverbal. “Early morning?” 

“Just needed….” Bernie’s casting about for words, an excuse, and Serena can see it, has seen it happen when her own daughter is trying to come up with a lie on the spot. 

“Coffee, I suspect. We both had a late night,” Serena says, throwing her a lifeline, desperately wanting to squash whatever is happening, desperately wanting to make it all right, to regain the easiness they developed without even trying. Bernie nods, not looking at Serena’s face, not meeting her eyes. “I can see if another room’s available,” she says, finally, when Bernie doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look at her.

It’s enough to startle Bernie into reacting, her face darting up, her eyes flashing. “Why?” she asks, worry tinging her voice.

“I don’t want you to be...uncomfortable,” Serena says, “And clearly whatever we’re - sharing a - I’m making you uncomfortable.” She fidgets slightly, pushes one ski down further into the snow, the wind pinking her cheeks, and she wishes it might blow her away. 

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Bernie says, almost sullenly, looking so childlike that Serena wants to laugh, even though it’s not what the moment calls for, not what they need right now. 

“Well,” she starts, pausing to think of the words she wants, “then do we need to talk about something?” Bernie’s eyes look huge, scared, and it makes Serena want to laugh again. Who could be that terrified of a conversation. 

“I’ve told Charlotte I’ll meet up with her for lunch,” she says, avoiding the question, avoiding answering. “I’ve got to go.” Without another word, she pushes off, down the hill, weaving around, hitting moguls, her speed increasing, and before long, she’s nothing more than a dot to Serena, not even that blonde hair visible. 

Serena spends the rest of the day alone, not in the mood for eating in the dining room, orders room service and eats on the bed while watching a sappy made-for-television movie. She goes in the hot tub in the afternoon, resting her aching body, enjoying the solitude, the warm water against her skin. Her eyes close, and it’s only the buzzing of her phone letting her know she’s got a text that stirs her into movement. 

_Where are you?_ It’s from Bernie, and Serena just faintly remembers trading numbers on the coach, but hasn’t had any call to use it since they’ve spent almost every waking moment together - almost every sleeping moment together as well.

_Wine in the room_. Serena catches herself smiling fondly at the text, wraps herself up in her towel, in her robe, slides her feet into the squishy sandals and makes her way through the lobby of the lodge and into the elevator. She taps gently on the door before letting herself in, Bernie already there, sitting cross-legged on the bed, two glasses of wine on the table, more full than not. 

Bernie looks tense, like she’s waiting for something, steeling herself for something. “Let me just get changed,” she says softly, and Bernie nods, unfolds her legs and takes a glass of wine. Serena pulls on her comfiest clothes, loose pants, a flowing shirt, and joins Bernie on the bed, scoots back against the headboard. 

“I’m gay.” Bernie says the words like she’s never said them aloud before, like it’s still new to her, and her face is scared, wide-eyed, prepared for the worst, bracing for impact. 

“All right,” Serena answers, sipping at her wine. It isn’t surprising, exactly, it explains her divorce, explains circumstances that might allow her daughter to make peace with her parents’ separation. “Do you...want to talk about it?” She looks at Bernie’s face, the lovely familiar face she’s grown used to these last few days. 

“I don’t know,” Bernie says, drinking from her own glass, casting her eyes down, her lashes fluttering against her cheeks. Serena sets her own glass on the bedside table and moves towards Bernie, takes the glass out of her hands as well. She cups Bernie’s cheek in her hand, her thumb brushing against that soft skin, finding her moles, rubbing at her hairline. 

“It’s all right,” she says, and leans forward to kiss Bernie’s cheek, her lips lingering as she breathes in Bernie’s scent, slightly sweaty, from skiing all day, the smell of snow clinging at the edges. “Let’s go to bed.”

The words hang between them as she pulls away, and Bernie is looking at her with something akin to wonder. Serena just smiles and pulls the covers aside, slides her feet beneath the heavy quilt, picks up her glass once more, determined to finish it before they fall asleep. Bernie follows suit, an enigmatic expression on her face, and mirrors Serena, drinking her own wine. Then she breaks the silence, talks about lunch with Charlotte, how she’s not even sure her daughter’s been up the hill any more since that one run on the first day. “Spent all her time drinking hot chocolate by the fireplace, flirting with boys.” 

“Can’t blame them. Beautiful, just like her mother.” Bernie’s blush is satisfying, and Serena can’t stop the smirk creasing her cheeks.

When the lights are out, the wine fully drunk, Serena finds Bernie’s hand in the dark. “I might be too,” she says softly, no context given, but she hopes Bernie knows what she means when she says those four words, words she’s been to scared to say in the daylight, a feeling she’s been nervous to put a name to. But she feels Bernie squeeze her fingers back, lets Bernie pull her into an embrace, and they fall asleep like that, close as they can be, and Serena thinks it’s been ages since she’s felt so comfortable in bed, so cared for. 

-

Morning comes, sooner than Serena would like, but she wakes up warm, comfortable, content. Bernie’s arm is still resting against her waist, she’s still got a cheek pressed against Bernie’s shoulder, a leg slotted between hers. “Hi,” she says softly, when she opens her eyes and sees Bernie looking down at her, a small smile on her face. She’s tempted to reach up and tap Bernie’s nose, something she’d do without thinking if she were dating someone, but she’s not quite sure what she and Bernie are doing, so her hand stays where it is. 

“Hi,” Bernie says back, her voice slightly husky, ragged from sleep, and her eyes are dark and lovely, and Serena feels the urge, so strongly, to kiss her, to just crane up her neck and press their lips together. But her phone buzzes and she pulls away, and they begin the day like the have every day before.

Bernie slips into the bathroom, uses the loo, runs a hand through her hair as she leaves, a familiar routine to Serena now, and she wants to be the one to rake her hand through Bernie’s hair. Her hand reaches out to push a curl behind Bernie’s ear before she can stop herself, but Bernie doesn’t seem to mind, her shy grin approval enough. 

Everything feels new, like freshly fallen snow covering everything, making it beautiful and fresh and different. There’s possibility in everything. She winks at Bernie as they drink their morning coffee, she feels a hand brush her shoulder as Bernie goes to fill her plate at the breakfast buffet. There’s the tap of feet against each other under the table. Serena feels as if she could burst with it all, expectations and hopes and dreams. 

She near explodes as they ride the lift up to the top of the mountain, their hands touching on the bar, warm even through the gloves they both wear. She can feel the press of their thighs as the lift moves jerkily, mechanically, every motion bringing them close. And when they get to the top of the mountain, when they stand there, looking down at the skiers below, at the lodge, at the valleys and the snow, and all the beauty laid before them, Serena looks to Bernie and thinks all the beauty she needs is stood right in front of her.

Their lips touch before Serena even knows what’s happening. She kisses Bernie like she breathes, without thinking, without care. Bernie’s mouth is soft, her face warm, and her hands against Serena’s cheeks are like heaven, holding her close, keeping her safe. She doesn’t know how long they kiss for, only knows she thinks she could do it forever, that she never wants to stop, that she didn’t know snogging could be like this. Serena understands the teenagers in the lodge, sneaking into each other’s rooms, lying to their teachers. She would tell a lie to anyone if it meant she got to kiss Bernie for hours.

“ _Mum!_ ” The word explodes like a gunshot, breaking the silence, the calm Serena feels. She turns just in time to see a flash of red hair bolt down the mountain, can easily picture the testy look on Elinor’s face as she goes down the slopes, her poles stabbing into the snow like she’s imagining her mother’s face.

“I’ve...I’ve got to go after her,” Serena says, regret in her voice, sorrow in her eyes. She brushes her hand against Bernie’s face once, twice, feels Bernie’s nod against her palm, and pushes herself down the hill after her daughter, the taste of Bernie still in her mouth, the wind chapping her well-kissed lips. 

Elinor is in her room by the time Serena’s able to get out of her boots, leave her skis and poles by the door. She brushes snow from her coat, and makes her way through the lodge, stops at the bar for two hot chocolates, holds them in front of her like a shield, like a peace offering. She taps gently at Elinor’s door, doesn’t wait for the sullen voice allowing her entrance, use the key she’s been given by the front desk and lets herself in. 

Elinor is laying in bed, back to the door. Serena sits just on the edge of the mattress, nudges Elinor’s feet. “If you look at me in the next five seconds, I’ll add whisky to the hot chocolate,” she says, and it’s a surefire enough bribe, because Elinor’s sitting up in moments. Serena hands one of the cups over. “I had the bartender add it in downstairs,” she says at Elinor’s questioning look, knows that her daughter hates to be predictable, even is she is all the same. 

“Are you a lesbian?” she asks, her voice sharp, like a slap against Serena’s cheek. 

“I don’t know,” she says honestly. “I don’t know what to think. I just - I met Bernie.” She wants that to be an explanation, wants that to be enough. She doesn’t know quite how to define herself, just knows that she wants to be with Bernie, in whatever way Bernie wants. “I think it’s more complicated than being a lesbian,” she offers, because that, at least, is the truth. 

“Can’t believe you’ve done more on this trip than I have,” she grouses, taking a sip of the hot chocolate, and Serena notes the face Elinor makes at the drink, thinks perhaps her daughter isn’t quite as brash as she seems, that there’s vulnerability under the brave face she puts on all the time. 

“Hardly,” Serena says. “That was - that was the first time.” She feels her face redden, can’t believe this is the conversation she’s having with her daughter. 

“But you’re sharing a _bed_ ,” Elinor says, a combination of wonder and disgust and Serena just laughs, a belly-shaking, bed-rocking laugh. 

“Believe it or not, your old mum has some restraint about her, and I’m hardly planning on popping my lesbian cherry on your school trip,” she says, holding her mug of hot chocolate carefully, wary of spills. Elinor’s look of disgust grows and Serena has to keep her laughter from bursting out again. “It wasn’t planned,” she offers, an olive branch. 

“Embarrassing mums never plan their embarrassments,” Elinor says, another sip of hot chocolate, not looking at Serena. 

“Oh, come now. I’ve been great. The least embarrassing. Imagine if your dad was here, chasing after Bernie even though she wouldn’t be the least bit interested in him!” That earns a brittle chuckle from Elinor - they both know how Edward is. 

“Does this mean I have to be friends with Charlotte?” Elinor looks the most worried she’s been the entire time, and Serena doesn’t bother hiding the chortle that escapes from her. “She’s such a swot, Mum!” 

“It means your paths might cross more outside of school, darling, but you are not being forced into friendship of any kind.” Serena gently taps her mug against Elinor’s. “A promise on that.” They both take a sip, a tenuous agreement formed. 

“Bet she’s wigging,” Elinor says, when she’s swallowed, tried her best to hide the grimace at the taste of whisky. “Go take care of her.” 

It’s as much of a blessing as Serena’s going to get, she thinks, and so she kisses her daughter’s forehead, brushes her hair back, out of her eyes, and tells her how much she loves her. “Forever and ever,” she promises, and Elinor doesn’t roll her eyes. 

She makes her way to the room she shares with Bernie, thinks the other woman is as likely to be there as anywhere. She’s relieved to see Bernie on the bed, resting against the headboard, leafing through the hotel information binder as if it’s the most interesting thing she’s ever read. 

“All right?” she asks, and even Serena can hear the false tone in her voice. She bites her lip in thought for a moment, a brief pause as she weighs her options, remembers how Bernie ran away from a conversation, knows how shy she can be, how guarded, and decides she has to be the brave one. She goes to the bed, sits on the very edge, right next to Bernie’s hip, places a hand on either side of her torso and leans, presses her body against Bernie, feels the way her body tenses, then relaxes. 

Serena kisses Bernie’s jaw, a light nip, gently pecks, moves up to her ear and bites at the lobe slightly, can see Bernie’s eyes flutter closed. She makes a slow, purposeful journey to Bernie’s mouth, and when their lips meet, Bernie is ready, waiting, pliable, letting Serena’s tongue slide into her mouth. 

“I’m all right,” she says when they part, resting her forehead against Bernie’s. She can feel the movement of her forehead, the creases in her face that form at her smile, feels the nuzzle of Bernie’s nose against her cheek. When she moves in to kiss Bernie this time, she moves so she’s straddling Bernie’s lap, feels Bernie’s hands come up to her waist, holding her steady, keeping her close. 

She doesn’t know that she has answers, exactly, for how to define this, but she doesn’t know that she needs them, not when her hips rock against Bernie’s, not when she feels the thrill of attraction rush through her veins, pool in the pit of her stomach. She feels like a volcano, threatening to explode, can only release the pent up energy by pressing her mouth against Bernie’s, by feeling their chests pressed together, all the curves she’s unfamiliar with making themselves known against her hands, hands that are moving with instinct alone. 

It’s Bernie’s moan that makes her pull back, that makes her sit up on her knees, her pelvis still pressed against Bernie’s. “We can’t - not here,” she says apologetically, her hand reaching out to cup Bernie’s cheek, to brush at the beautiful tangle of hair that always falls into her face. “Not a no,” she adds, “Just not yet.” Bernie’s eyes darken at that, a smirk snaking across her face, and she pulls Serena in for another kiss. 

“Not yet,” she says, when their mouths are still close, when Serena can still feel her breath against her cheek. It’s a promise, it’s a hope, it’s a fragile trust that bubbles up between them, crystalline and delicate, and Serena makes a vow to herself not to break it, thinks she’s never wanted anything so much. 

-

When they board the coach home early the next morning, Serena finds Bernie’s hand, their fingers slotting together easily. She smiles, small and secret, and doesn’t mind the slightly sweaty palm pressed against her own. 

Bernie falls asleep almost immediately, her head resting on Serena’s shoulder, a garbled murmur about how comfortable she is. Serena just smiles, lets the jostling coach lull her into a sleepy state as well, her head resting atop Bernie’s, her eyes drifting closed. 

She’s not aware of any of the journey home, not one second. She only wakes when they pull into the car park outside the school, and she blinks blearily, can just make out her car where she parked it days ago. There’s a sporty little car parked next to it, and she’d just bet it was Bernie’s, remembers she’d said something about a mid-life crisis vehicle, a wry smile and a deep wink. 

They watch the kids unload from the bus, pulling their bags from the bottom of the coach, parents waiting for their offspring to return, hugs and laughs, the openness of family drawing the students in, bringing them back to their mums and dads, the pull of apron strings, the ties that bind them. Serena feels a bit weepy about it all, strangely, watching these little units reform, open up to allow their children back in. 

She thinks of her own daughter, thinks maybe this trip was good for them, little fits and starts towards healing the chasm that’s formed through Elinor becoming a teenager. As if materialized through thought, Elinor appears in front of Serena, suitcase in hand. She looks between her mother and Bernie, and makes her way to the car without being asked. 

“See you?” she says, a question, a hope, and Bernie nods, taps her phone, the unspoken promise to text. Serena presses a kiss to Bernie’s cheek, nothing to scandalous, too promiscuous, and lets her fingers lightly touch Bernie’s as she walks away. 

As she drives them homeward, she thinks for the first time how lonely her bed will feel, how empty, wonders if she could convince Elinor to share, not something she’s done for ages. When she turns to Elinor, a question on her lips, Elinor looks back, their twin eyes meeting, and Serena sees so much of herself in her daughter. 

“I invited Charlotte over this weekend,” she says, nonchalant, fiddling with the radio. 

“Oh?” Serena says, trying for unaffected, worrying it sounds a little strangled.

“And her mum.” Elinor finds a station she likes, turns up the volume and settles against her seat, turning to look out the window. 

“And her mum,” Serena echoes, a smile brightening her features, and she finds her fingers tapping along to the song against the steering wheel. _And her mum_. 

_Bernie_.


	7. the very first words of a lifelong love letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anniversaries // for Jess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I promised Jess I would say, she has complete control over this lavenderseaslug original

_**one year** _

They aren’t together. Well, they’re _together_ but they’re not with each other. There are miles and borders between them, even a time difference to make things trickier. But Serena’s phone buzzes with FaceTime request and she can see Bernie’s fuzzy features, can make out the color of her scrubs. 

“Happy anniversary,” she says, a slight video lag with the words coming before her mouth starts moving, but it’s just nice to Bernie, to see a semblance of home, and to not feel a surge of sadness, of panic, of loss. Instead she feels buoyed by the sight of blonde curls and dark eyes, so dark that the pixels on her phone can’t distinguish between pupil and iris. 

“Is this the date we decided?” Serena says with a smile, curling up in the chair she’s moved right by the window, the low light from the sun catching everything in a golden gaze. She knows it is, they had a very long, very silly discussion about what counted as their anniversary. Was it the date they first kissed? The day they met? “So many anniversaries, how lucky we are that we get to choose,” she’d said, a quirk to her lips, kissed off quickly by Bernie’s ever-hungry, ever-lovely mouth.

They’d decided on the day Bernie returned from Kiev, the day it all came out, the day that led to a long talk, a long snog, a long night. It seemed settled then, that they were _something_. It makes sense to celebrate that, even though Serena realizes they were something long before either of them knew it. 

“You look well,” Bernie says carefully, and Serena knows that she’s picking her words, tiptoeing between potential landmines, worries about the fractures she’s put between them without meaning to or wanting to. 

“You do too,” she answers, and means it, wants to thread her fingers into Bernie’s hair so desperately badly her fingers twitch. “I miss you.” She hasn’t said the words, hasn’t spoken them into existence, for fear of the wanting overcoming her. But she gives them as a gift, as her present to Bernie on this day, floating from her lips, lighter than air. 

_**five years** _

For their fifth anniversary, they’re in Nairobi. They’ve been trying six months in each place, working with refugees in Africa, working locum positions in England. It works, but barely. Serena makes jokes about Hades and Persephone, leading Bernie to ask which one of them is which. “You know you led me to the dark side,” Serena says, bumping against Bernie’s shoulder, their bodies pressed together on the small cot they share. 

“Is that what you call it?” Bernie asks, rolling onto her side, curls tumbling over her shoulder. Serena catches a strand between her fingers, toys with it, noting, not for the first time, that Bernie’s growing her hair, that it’s longer. She likes the way her ponytail bounces in the sun. “I prefer to call it enlightenment.” 

She moves to straddle Serena, the cot creaking loud enough to alert anyone on the medical base to what’s going on in their tent, but Serena can’t be bothered with caring, not when their lips are pressed together, their hips are pressed together. They don’t do this often, not out here, where the tent walls are thick, where knowing glances are common, where it’s hard to hide a bruise from an overly-enthusiastic snog. 

Serena likes the way the heat makes their skin feel, the warmth and the sweatiness, it all thrumming through her as she tilts her hips just so, make Bernie grunt into the hollow of her shoulder. She thinks there’s a part of her that could do just this for hours, Bernie’s mouth against her neck, their limbs tangled, feeling like she could just purr from pleasure.

But then her fingers catch the feeling of Bernie’s smooth skin beneath the vest she sleeps in, and it’s like a lioness awoken, because she wants to touch it all, get even closer. Bernie always undresses easily, smooth movements that come from years of changing in front of other people, a comfort with herself. She somehow seems longer and leggier than the day they met, but Serena can’t care, not when those legs are sandwiching her waist, not when the length of Bernie body covers her own.

“Can you believe it’s been five years?” she whispers against Bernie’s ear, nipping at the shell with gentle teeth, tweaking a nipple with nimble fingers. 

“What’s five years?” Bernie says, her voice ragged. “We’ve got a lifetime.”

_**seven years** _

Jason insists on engaging the services of a babysitter, wants to take his aunties out for dinner with his partner. “We’re not partners like you and Bernie are partners, Auntie Serena,” he says conspiratorially, “But it’s a convenient word that conveys the sentiment about our commitment to one another.” Serena smiles, happy to be with her nephew, happy to see Greta too, her nervous behavior slightly calmed, their eyes meeting. 

The dinner is nothing special, it’s fish and chips, because it’s Wednesday, but it’s nice to be out, and to be together, and Serena can hold Bernie’s hand and wipe grease from her cheek, and that’s enough. Her hair’s shorter again, but still unruly, still lovely, and it gets caught in her mouth all the same, making Serena laugh. 

Jason insists on paying, because he’s seen it done, and it’s a lovely gesture and so far from where they started that it makes Serena feel a bit weepy. She touches his hand gently, and from the look in his eyes, she thinks he understands. 

“Have you gotten each other something copper?” he asks, breaking the moment, startling Serena a bit with the non sequitur. 

“C-copper? Why something copper?” Serena rubs at her neck a little, wondering if it’s meant to be a comment on her necklace, that he thinks it’s time for something new.

“Copper’s meant to be the present for seven years. It’s wedding anniversaries, technically, but I suppose you and Bernie could qualify.” He takes a chip and swishes it in the sauce, liberally coating one end. 

“How magnanimous,” Serena answers wryly, an eyebrow raised as she looks at Bernie. “Well, have you?” Bernie shakes her head, her mouth full.

“Neither of you are quite the model of romance Greta and I might hope for,” Jason says, a little haughtily, and it just makes Bernie snort, a little bit of fish juice escaping between her lips, and Serena can’t help but lean in and kiss them, cod flavor and all. 

“I love you,” she whispers, soft and sweet, meant just for them, and feels Bernie smile against her cheek.

_**ten years** _

By ten years in, Serena doesn’t think there are any surprises left, not that she needs them or misses them, or anything of the sort. She feels comfortable, safe, wanted, loved. That’s enough for her, when all’s said and done. 

She wakes up early, Bernie’s side of the bed cold - she never has really kicked the habit of morning runs, despite all of Serena’s attempts to convince her of the merits of lazy days spent under the covers. But she knows there will be coffee waiting for her in the kitchen and the newspaper carefully set out. 

There’s also a lovely card, Serena’s name written on the envelope in that messy scribble Serena so loves, as if there’s anyone else in the house who might open a piece of mail. It’s a silly card, schmaltzy and not the sort of thing either she or Bernie go for, but Serena suspects it might’ve been picked up at the hospital gift shop the night before, a last minute purchase. 

When she opens the card, the first line she reads makes her breath stop in her mouth. _I’m not out for a run_ , it says and Serena thinks perhaps this means Bernie’s left her, that everything is coming to a heart-shattering end and she’ll be left to pick up the pieces of the life she built with the woman she loved, and she doesn’t know who she is on the other side of that. But then the endless moment does, in fact, end, when her eyes move down to the next line. _I’m at the airport, waiting for you_. 

There’s a flight number, a reminder to bring her passport, and reassurance that her bag has already been packed. Serena doesn’t know if she can trust Bernie to have remembered _everything_ , but supposes, after ten years, there should be some confidence in her partner’s abilities. So she doesn’t let herself do a check through her drawers or her makeup case. She just runs a hand through her hair, mostly grey and white now, wiry, and dresses quickly, efficiently, the way she thinks a military woman might go about it. 

She takes a cab to the airport, sees Bernie waiting outside the doors, moves to help her out of the car, their hands clasping, fitting together like they always do. “See the benefits of getting up early?” Bernie husks, paying the driver, pulling Serena into the airport, the cold air conditioning hitting her, making goosepimples erupt on her arms. 

“I could think of a few things we could be doing in bed right now that we can’t be doing here,” she murmurs back, her voice dropping, her head bowed towards Bernie, their hands still clasped. 

“There are other surprises in store,” Bernie promises, “that will make up for it.” 

Serena still doesn’t know where they’re going, but she knows that as long as she’s hand in hand with Bernie Wolfe, she’ll be glad to be there.

_**years** _

They stop counting, really. Serena doesn’t feel the need to, doesn’t need to mark the passage of time when she knows how it began, when she knows how it ends. It ends with them, together. It started with them, together. That’s how it was always meant to be, like the universe knew they were each other’s destiny, brought them together, helped them complete each other, complement each other. 

“How many years is it?” Serena asks, her voice raspy from sleep, her eyes not even open. She can feel Bernie underneath her cheek, her warm skin, her lazy fingers drawing sprawling patterns against Serena’s bare back.

“Mmm,” Bernie says, not an answer, but it conveys the contentment Serena feels. The minutes stretch like a summer’s day, long as the shadows that have begun to climb their bedroom walls. She moves slightly, running a hand through Serena’s short hair, keeping her close. “Mmmm,” she hums again, “not enough.”


	8. even if i knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, i would still plant my apple tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Soulmate AU and Sleep Intimacy._

Berenice Wolfe is scared of apples. Not because she’s allergic or because she suffered some traumatic apple-related event as a child, no, she’s scared of them because of what they mean. She watched her older sister with an apple, carefully peeling it in one smooth line, her thumb sure and strong, the blade of the knife small and sharp. When she had one long line of crisp green peel, she tossed it over her shoulder, eyes closed, breath caught in her throat, and Bernie just watched the peel fall to the ground. 

There is only one chance to see letters in an apple peel. If it breaks or tears, if it’s dropped in front rather than over the shoulder, if anything happens, the chance is lost, over, done. Bernie watched her sixteen year-old sister peel the apple, promised herself that she’d do it at the same age. Her sister even gave her an apple as a present when the day came, but Bernie let it sit in her windowsill, watched it rot and collapse in on itself, too afraid of what she’d see. Of what she wouldn’t see. 

When she’s older, she stops eating apples. Doesn’t buy them at the grocery, doesn’t make them into pies. She marries a man who makes her happy enough that she thinks it’s fine she never saw his initials made out of an apple peel on the floor, doesn’t know if she’d love him more if she had. She joins the army, becomes a doctor, lives her life, un-dictated by the whims of produce. She has two children, thinks she loves them more than any soulmate she might meet. She meets a woman she thinks she might love more than her husband, thinks it might just be she loves women more than men, doesn’t think an apple could’ve told her that.

She goes to the desert, a captain in the RAMC, wakes up hot and sticky with sweat, and just once, lets herself think of a cold fall day and a crisp green apple. But then she hears a yell for assistance, smells the acrid scent of burning, and the moment passes. She doesn’t think of apples again, not for a long time. 

-

There’s a day in early February when she wakes up squinting into a brightness that has snuck into her tent, the sun rising before her, shadows of lean-tos and makeshift buildings creeping along the sand. She wakes up and spends her morning doing all the things that have become routine. She loads supplies in the back of a truck, hops in after them, and moments later, nothing is routine. She wakes up on a cot in Kandahar and goes to sleep in an operating theatre in Holby. 

She chafes as she heals, rebels against physical therapy, against her body not being as strong as she wants it to be. “It takes time, Bernie,” Marcus says, his voice gentle but his eyes hard, and he seems like a stranger, so far from the man she married. She knows she has to be honest about the woman in the desert, about the feelings in her heart.

What happens instead is that she wants to make it work, wants to regain the happiness she once had. She gets a job, finds work as a surgeon at the very hospital that patched her up.

Holby is different than Kandahar. An obvious statement, but a true one. Bernie can’t get a feel for it, not yet anyway. Everything is calmer, cleaner, more orderly. She feels the scar pull on her chest as she moves and can’t find a way to make this place feel like home. 

Serena Campbell, with gleaming eyes and a smiling mouth, is the closest thing to a friend Bernie’s been able to find. She hands Bernie coffee and pastries and a place on AAU. She gives out her phone number and extracts a promise that Bernie will call her, text her. And Bernie even manages to follow through, gets used to “hello”s in the morning, to a quick “sleep well” before she shuts her eyes, finds herself waking up through the night without it, as if she needs Serena’s blessing to wile away the hours in slumber.

Marcus files for divorce, serves Bernie with papers while she’s at work, in front of Serena no less. But Serena is there, kind and lovely, and makes her a cup of tea, gives her the space to be angry, to feel, to be herself. And then they go about their days, but Bernie can’t shake the memory of Serena’s hand on her arm, of the warmth that flowed through her whole body at the touch.

There’s a moment where she can see her world hanging in the balance, when a patient spits out the awful truth about her - that she’s cheated on her husband. Bernie can see the widening of Serena’s eyes, how they become even wider when the young girl adds that it was with a woman. She never meant to keep these truths from Serena, never meant to lie or hide or be someone other than who she is. But she can see Serena’s eyes shutter, like a house gone long into disuse, and wonders if she’ll ever see the gleaming, shining, wonderful sight of Serena’s eyes again.

Things seem to keep happening, she’s a tumbleweed caught in the desert of Holby and she can’t stop spinning. Serena’s car gets stolen and Bernie gives her a ride home, declines the invitation for a glass of wine, doesn’t think she’s earned it yet. Bernie covers for Serena’s suspension, takes on AAU like it’s her own, tries to be as good as Serena, even if she knows she’s different. 

She makes Serena a care package, something to welcome her back, tries to think of what Serena might like best, what might make her smile, dares to hope Serena might smile at her again. Instead the care package is lost in the midst of Bernie’s mess, the wrappers and the food and the old lunches she never finished eating. And Serena has to clean it up. Bernie wonders if she might ever make up for this in Serena’s eyes. 

And then Serena tosses her an apple, found on the desk, part of a sandwich lunch and Bernie never realized. But she catches it on instinct, in both hands, tosses it back and forth as she talks to Serena, can’t stop the nervous movement even when Hanssen comes into the office. She only moves when she feels the awkward tension fill the room, her hands stilling, and she takes her leave.

She stares at the apple between her hands, wonders if Serena even knows what she’s done. Bernie hasn’t had an apple in years. She sits it on the edge of the nurses’ station, then moves it to the other side of her computer. Then moves it back. She can’t stop touching it, can’t settle with it there, doesn’t want to give it up. 

Serena gives her half of AAU, shares her ward, says they’re equals, and Bernie feels lighter inside than she has in ages. The apple comes home with her, tucked in her satchel, next to her laptop, her paperwork, safe as houses nestled there. And when she gets home, she puts it on her countertop, her whole world shrinking to the shiny red circle, as if all the colors in her flat have vanished, it’s the brightest thing around.

She doesn’t sleep, rolls and tosses in her bed as she thinks about the apple sitting in her kitchen. It’s half past two in the morning when she finally throws back her duvet and walks through the darkness to the cool tiled floor, feeling with her feet. She flicks on a light, the apple sitting where she left it, and Bernie holds it in her hands, cradles it. And then she goes for the knife.

She remembers how careful her sister was, how slow she went. Bernie wills her own hands to stop shaking as she slides the blade against the crisp flesh of the apple, doesn’t want to ruin this, to miss out on the one thing she only gets one chance with. Finally the knife slides free, and Bernie is left with a green whorl in the palm of her hand, a bare, white apple in the other. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and tosses the peel over her shoulder.

-

There’s a calmness Bernie feels, a surety, when she comes into the hospital the next day. She’s got a soulmate, real and true. And her soulmate is right next to her, her soulmate is _right there_. She feels a thrill whenever Serena’s hand brushes against hers, when their shoulders nestle together as they talk. They fit, and it’s like Bernie’s been given the answer to a puzzle she didn’t even know she was solving. 

She would give anything, _anything_ , to make sure Serena is happy, well-cared for. Which is how she comes to invite Serena over to her house. It’s not so much of a house as it is a flat and it’s not so much of a flat as it is a large room with several partitions around it to make it seem like there’s privacy. But Serena is tired and worn and needs seeing to, and Jason can fend for himself for the night, can spend time with Alan. So Bernie bundles Serena into her car, doesn’t take a word of protest, imagines she’s an unruly private and gives her the order to just stay quiet, for five minutes.

Serena is defiant in her muteness, her arms crossed, her eyes sparkling and Bernie can just imagine all the things she’s planning to say, the things that will spill out of her mouth the minute five minutes are up. “I can practically _smell_ your insubordination from here,” she says, but Serena just mimes locking up her mouth, throwing away the key. 

“What are we doing here?” Serena asks, when she’s allowed to speak again, when she’s standing in the middle of Bernie’s flat, and Bernie shrugs once, twice, drops her bag to the floor. Then tells Serena about the hard days in the desert, the days when there were twice as many losses as wins, four times as many. She spins a story about the nights when the air got cool and soldiers found each other, their limbs tired, their souls sad, and the presence of one other person seemed to help. 

“There’s comfort to be found in sharing a bed,” is how she ends it, another shrug of her shoulders, she can’t stop. She wants this whole arrangement to scream _casual_ and not as if her whole heart isn’t on the line, not as if she can’t stop thinking about holding Serena in her arms. 

Perhaps it’s a sign of how tired Serena is, how weary, but all she does is nod, accept Bernie’s premise. And then they go to bed together. Serena whispers things in the dark, the little things she wouldn’t say during the day, that she’s too embarrassed, too proud, to scared to admit. Her head comes to nestle underneath Bernie’s, her body relaxes, and Bernie thinks she can feel the tension leave her, can feel the moment when Serena sleeps, the moment she takes the first deep breath she’s had in months. 

They make a habit of it. Not intentionally at first, but Bernie can sense the days when Serena needs it, when her eyes go hard and her mouth is firm, and the F1s go running in the opposite direction at the sight of her. Those are the days Bernie takes her home, gives her wine and friendship and care and thinks perhaps this is all a soulmate is, that it might not ever be more than this, and she tells herself that’s all right too. 

There’s a day that’s hard for both of them, a day that brings them to their knees, and Bernie know the barrier between in control and out of it is thin. And when Serena looks at her with tired, sad eyes, the eyes Bernie only sees at night, when they’re in bed, when it’s their own secret world, Bernie can’t stop herself from leaning in to kiss Serena, to taste her lips, to know for a moment what it might feel like to press her mouth to that of her soulmate. 

And the next instant, she knows what it is like to be kissed in return, feels Serena’s tentative fingers at her elbow, at her back, in her hair. She doesn’t know how long it goes, how long they stay that way, feels herself drowning in it, being overcome, has never felt this at any point. The door to the scrub room bangs open and they spring apart, the distant sound pulling them back to the earth, pushing them apart. Bernie looks into Serena’s eyes and sees a raft of emotion, doesn’t know which one she’s feeling. And so she runs.

She can’t run far, this is her home now, her scar has long stopped itching, but she works nights, avoids the day, avoids the bright sunshine of Serena, feels that she has to be cast in shadow, because she broke her own rule, took something that she shouldn’t.

Eventually she sees Serena again, has to, they share a ward. They share everything, when it comes down to it. She thinks of going to another country, of escaping, but Serena kisses her, kisses her and tells her she thinks she’s falling in love.

In another world, another time, when Serena says those words, Bernie runs away. In another world, Bernie punishes herself and hides herself away. In another world, she has to learn how to accept forgiveness, how to accept Serena’s grace. In this world, though, Bernie smiles a crooked smile, like her mouth never quite learned how to, and tells Serena about the apple.

Knowing about the apple makes Serena smile, like Eve in the garden of Eden, like she’s been given secret knowledge only for the two of them, and Bernie thinks she would survive being banished to the desert if it meant they were together for the end of time. Bernie catches Serena’s grin when they work, sees it in her eyes across the operating table, knows what she’s thinking when they’re alone in the office.

When she offers to take Serena home, it’s not because they’re sad, not because Serena’s tired or worn out. When Bernie offers to take Serena home, it’s because she’s about to burst from wanting, from knowing that she can have it but not just yet. When Bernie offers to take Serena home, Serena smiles like a cat that’s got the cream and offers to race Bernie to the car.

Serena is brave and bold and sure of herself. She undresses Bernie with careful fingers and a watchful eye. She runs her hands along Bernie’s skin, pays special attention to the rough wrinkles of the scar down her sternum, and all Bernie can think is _home_. They press together, skin to skin, heart to heart, and Bernie feels like she might burst, wonders if her sister felt this way the first time with her soulmate, wonders if anyone loves the way she loves Serena. She feels incandescent with her love, shining forth, a glow she cannot contain.

They sleep together, really sleep, deep and long and pressed together as close as they can be. Bernie feels a peacefulness inside like something has fixed itself, like she was broken and now she’s whole, and wonders if Serena feels the same way. She whispers her love into Serena’s hair and smiles when she hears it muttered back.

-

Serena buys an apple, bright red and shiny. Bernie can’t stop looking at it, it catches her eye when she’s meant to be cooking dinner. It haunts her thoughts as they eat at Serena’s dining room table. “Just do it,” she pleads with Serena, because she can’t take not knowing any more, because what if it’s not her initials that appear. “Just peel the apple.” 

Instead of peeling it, she takes a bite, her teeth scraping against the outside of it, a perfect imprint of her mouth left behind. As she swallows, she leans in to kiss Bernie, the taste of apple on her lips, a taste that will now always make Bernie think of home and love and happiness. “Why would I need an apple to tell me what I already know?”


	9. pull me back where i belong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-kiev, post-first kiss; navigating the awkwardness.
> 
> title is from "elevator music" by beck

Serena dances her fingers over the keyboard, not sure of what she’s typing, not sure of what she’s doing, really, except pretending to work. If she slants her eyes just so, she can see Bernie Wolfe, bending over a chart at the nurse’s station, her blonde hair falling into her face, that ridiculous fringe masking her dark eyes. It’s too bad that she knows what that hair feels like now, how soft, how pretty, how easily it could slide between her fingers. 

She can see Bernie’s long legs, too, stretched out behind her just a bit, her shoulders hunched as she leans on her elbows, nothing about her really hidden by the scrubs, one of the few people on the planet who can look even the least bit attractive in navy blue cotton. And Serena knows what that body feels like under her hands, the curve of her waist, the plumpness of her breasts. She bites her lip, coming back to herself, realizing how long she’s been staring. 

Perhaps Bernie is fine keeping things confined to theater, keeping things separate, moving on as if nothing happened. Perhaps Bernie is unaffected. That’s what Serena keeps saying to herself. Maybe it didn’t mean anything, maybe it was just the stress of the day, maybe it was just a side effect of being tired down to the bone. Maybe maybe maybe. 

She doesn’t know how to tell Bernie that it meant something to her. That maybe it meant _everything_. She doesn’t know how to tell her that kissing her felt like things falling into place, like some echo of a years-long call gone unanswered, finally being reverberated back to her. And now they exist in silence, awkwardly avoiding each other, maintaining careful distance, no more touches between them. Can’t reach out to pat her shoulder, that might let the thing confined to theater out into the open, might make it spill out between them. So there’s no talking, no touching, no...anything.

It’s unfortunate, then, that Bernie also happens to be the person that Serena normally talks to about her personal problems, the person who listens to her when it all gets to be too much. She tries to imagine a conversation between them, to think of what sensible Bernie would tell her. “She’s your best friend, Serena, don’t muck it up.” “Kissing one woman doesn’t make you a lesbian, Serena.” “She wants to keep it confined to theater, that’s what’s best. Don’t make it awkward for the both of you. Anymore than it already is.” A cacophony of made-up conversations, all telling her to let it lie. 

And she’s been doing that, for the most part. Letting things go, letting things lie. She never gets in the elevator with Bernie anymore, never schedules a surgery with her, finds an excuse to leave the office whenever she comes in. Don’t make it awkward, don’t make it worse. But there are moments, like just now, where Serena finds that she can look at Bernie, really look at her, unguarded, unwatched, can just stare at Bernie and let herself think _What if_.

She sees Bernie straighten, smile at Fletch and hand over the chart, and all she can think of is her wildly beating heart, of how much she wishes that smile was directed at her, how much she misses the sight of a happy Bernie Wolfe, with a face-splitting grin meant just for her. 

Serena manages to look busy once more by the time Bernie opens the office door, freezing for a millisecond when she sees Serena, but Serena catches it, sees the moment she regains her equilibrium and goes to sit down. 

“Busy day?” Bernie’s voice seems loud in the small space of their office, breaking the silence. It’s so stilted, so strained, so different from how they used to be. Serena still feels the impulse in her body to react to Bernie, to respond easily and happily, words tripping out of her mouth before she’s even really thought of what she’s saying. 

“Mm,” is all Serena can muster to say, doesn’t know if they’re even in a place where they can banter about charts and office work and how boring it can be to be stuck behind a desk. “Hand cramps from signing these forms,” she says, shaking out her fingers, and she thinks she sees Bernie’s eyes track the movement, thinks she might see the start of a blush on her cheeks, but then Bernie ducks her head and Serena can’t be sure of what she saw. 

“I’ve got a meeting,” she says abruptly, when the awkward tension between them ratchets up once more and she can’t quite bear it. She pushes back from the desk, her rolling chair spinning a bit faster than she intends, and she almost loses balance. Looking at Bernie, she sees the other woman hasn’t even looked up from her computer screen, and Serena thinks she’s at least been saved one more humiliation. 

There’s the sensation of being watched as she exits the office, but when she turns to look over her shoulder as the door closes, Bernie’s nose is down, and Serena sighs. 

She doesn’t actually have a meeting, doesn’t have anything to occupy her time at the moment. Her patients are seen to, her charts are signed, the ward is, for once, quiet. So Serena goes to Pulses, gets her third coffee of the day, smiles tightly when the barista comments that they’ve missed seeing her blonde friend around. “She’s busy, I suppose,” Serena says, and has to stop herself from buying a second cup for Bernie.

-

The end of the day comes quickly and yet not soon enough. Serena’s felt a bit at sea, adrift from her normal life, and all she wants is to talk to her best friend about it. But then she sees those shuttered eyes, the way her gaze slants away just when they might make eye contact, the way Bernie finds excuses to leave, and Serena knows she doesn’t have anyone to talk to. 

She sighs as she takes her coat off the rack, folds it over her arm and makes her way across AAU, bidding a good evening to the assorted staff still around, taking over for the night shift. Serena makes it to the elevator, presses the button, taps her toe, taps her fingers, her whole body in impatient movement as she waits for the car to come, for the doors to open. 

Serena shifts her weight between her feet, then steps onto the elevator when it arrives. She pushes for the ground floor, and just as she’s about to press button to close the doors, Bernie Wolfe’s arm shoots out and she slides onto the elevator, stopping the doors from moving. Serena has immediate flashback to their first elevator ride after their - after the kiss in theater, and she can feel the tension flood back into her body.

Bernie smiles at Serena, that brief quirk of her lips, the strain in her neck proving that she’s uncomfortable, and Serena wishes she didn’t know Bernie so well. The elevator begins its descent and then it shudders, creaks, groans, makes any number of gestures that Serena just wishes it wouldn’t, and then it stops, silent, not even a hum of a motor.

“We’ve broken down,” Bernie says, needlessly.

“Elevator mechanic as well as good with cars?” Serena asks, hating the acidity in her voice, seeing the way Bernie is taken aback by it, sees how she shrinks from her tone. “I’ll call Raf, he’ll get us seen to,” she adds on a sigh, just as Bernie reaches for the phone below the button panels. “Or you can do that.” They’re just out of sync, different from how they once were, and Serena just wishes something would give.

Bernie speaks in clipped tones over the phone, has no estimate for when they’ll be moving again, no estimate for when Serena will be free from this purgatory. She slides to the floor, is almost tempted to toe her shoes off, leans her head against the cold metal wall. 

They aren’t talking, they don’t talk. It’s the way they interact on the ward, but shrunk down to this elevator, and all Serena can feel is the discomfort lodged in her heart. She steals a look at Bernie from under her lashes, sees the other woman scrolling through her phone, sees her chest heave in a sigh, tries very hard not to think about the last time they were sitting on a floor together. 

Tries not too hard to think about how different things are now. 

She slides her feet out, straight in front of her, looks up at the tiled ceiling and tries not to groan, to let out any of the things she’s feeling, because that’s apparently not what they’re doing. 

But then she feels the tap of Bernie’s foot against hers, the first time they’ve touched in days, and she can feel it all the way through her body, a rush from her toes to a shudder at the back of her neck. She looks at Bernie, her gaze snapping to the other woman’s face, and all she sees is fear there, the touch was an accident, she’s crossed the invisible line they’ve drawn between them. 

“Have we really sunk so low?” she says, can’t keep it in. “I can control myself - I won’t throw myself at you just because our feet have touched through our shoes. You aren’t _that_ irresistible.” That earns a bit of a laugh from Bernie, that half choked off bark. 

“I didn’t think you wanted us to touch,” she says shyly, haltingly, but her foot is still touching Serena’s, she hasn’t pulled it back.

“You were the one that wanted to keep things confined to theater,” Serena says, can’t stop the resentment from spilling out, wonders what might’ve happened if Bernie came into the office that day without a prepared speech, if they’d shared their wine with the promise of something to come, rather than the ending of something that never even started.

“I thought that’s what you wanted. I was trying to save us both some trouble.” Bernie’s looking at Serena now, with those penetrating eyes, those deep wells that Serena could lose herself in, has lost herself in. 

“Does it feel like that’s been the case?” Serena wants to be the kind of person who can just let things go, who can just dive into a moment without discussing it, but she’s never been that way. And this is too big, too important, to enter into without knowing everything Bernie’s thinking. 

“No,” Bernie says, but it’s with a smile, with a laughing glint to her eyes, and again, Serena realizes just how well she knows Bernie, how she can read her just from her eyes. It’s what makes them work so well in theater, when the mask covers their faces and they communicate wordlessly, seamlessly. 

“Maybe it’s a time we have a conversation? Instead of one of us deciding for the other?” Serena feels hope bubbling between her ribcage, doesn’t want to get ahead of herself, has seen the consequence of that in this very same situation. “What if I say that the theater is the last place I want to keep anything confined?” 

Bernie has her gaze fixed on Serena, penetrating, and she might even say there’s a bit of hopefulness there too. “I would say that could mean any number of things.” 

It’s all Serena can do to keep from rolling her eyes. What she does instead is speak plainly, honestly. “All I’ve been thinking about since the moment we kissed is when we might kiss again. How much I want to kiss you. Bernie, you changed my whole world and then went running in the other direction!” 

“I...changed your world?” Serena wonders, not for the first time, how someone like Bernie can be so utterly clueless about her impact on the people around her. She moves across the floor of the elevator, feels awkward and ungainly, but it’s worth it, because she can take Bernie’s hand between her own, can look her right in the eyes. 

“Bernie, you’re the first woman I’ve ever kissed. It was like - it was like things made sense. Why I feel so close to you, why we stand near to each other, why I feel like our shoulders should bump in the hallways. I’ve never wanted a woman the way I want you. I didn’t know I could - I didn’t ever let myself _think_ I could.” She feels Bernie’s hand squeeze slightly against her palm, the slight movement of her fingers. Serena breathes, deep and slow, and lets her forehead rest against Bernie’s, relishes in the fact that Bernie doesn’t move away, that Bernie’s other hand has come to rest against Serena’s thigh. 

“I’ve wanted women before.” Bernie’s voice is shaky as she says it, like she’s never said it out loud more than a few times, and Serena thinks, perhaps she hasn’t. “It’s different with you. You’re everywhere. And instead of being scared of that - Serena, I can’t imagine you _not_ being everywhere. I didn’t like working with Marcus, I needed space from him. But with you - with you, it’s like it’s never enough.” Bernie isn’t prone to long speeches, to divulging her feelings, and Serena knows it, doesn’t mind it, but feels all the better that Bernie will do this with her, will say these things to her. She can feel Bernie’s warm breath against her cheeks and smiles. 

“I hope you won’t suggest we keep it confined to this elevat-” Serena’s words are cut off by Bernie’s lips on hers, and it feels as good as the first time. Better, maybe, because there’s no surprise, because she’s ready for it, because she can immediately grasp Bernie’s elbow, her shoulders, slide a hand into her hair. There’s no pause for her brain to catch up. 

She learns what Bernie’s tongue tastes like when it slips between her open lips, she lets her hand rake through Bernie’s hair, knows what Bernie means when she says she can’t get enough. 

There’s a noise coming from somewhere at the edges of Serena’s mind, something she can’t quite place, and it’s a long moment before she realizes it’s the sound of the elevator moving, the hum of the motor, the shudder of it coming back to life. “Mm - Bernie,” she says, pulling her mouth away, loathe to stop. “Bernie, the elevator.”

Serena wonders what will be waiting for them when the doors open. There’s no hiding what they’ve gotten up to, their well-kissed lips, mussed hair, flushed cheeks. She does her best to straighten herself out, but thinks it’s obvious she’s been kissed by Bernie Wolfe, and kissed well. 

She looks at Bernie out of the corner of her eye, her hand twitching just slightly, their fingers touching just a bit. “Come over later?” she asks softly, and she feels Bernie’s little finger reach out to catch her own. 

“What about Jason?” The question is soft, and it makes Serena’s heart swell a bit, that she knows it’s a question to ask.

“Gone for the week,” she answers, “Place to ourselves.” She sees a glint in Bernie’s eyes that she knows matches her own. There’s another squeeze of their fingers, the gentlest touch that squeezes her heart too. Serena grins, and takes a deep breath, knowing the elevator doors are about to open, knowing that things have shifted, that the world has changed between them. But she thinks that, for the first time in weeks, they’ll be facing it together.

 


	10. a choice you make every day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> adrienne is alive and able to see serena in love with a woman
> 
>  _motherhood is a choice you make every day, to put someone else's happiness and well-being ahead of your own, to teach the hard lessons, to do the right thing even when you're not sure what the right thing is...and to forgive yourself, over and over again, for doing everything wrong._ \- donna ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy birthday to the best pal, jess

Adrienne’s working at her computer, typing up an email, when her mobile rings. She glances over the top of her glasses, sees its Serena, knows it’s nothing pressing, just her daily phone call, lets it ring to her voicemail.

It’s not until much later that afternoon that she remembers to check her messages. “Hello, Mum.” In just those two words, Serena’s voice sounds a little brighter than it has recently, Adrienne knows Serena’s been in a bit of a mood, something about Kiev and a doctor she works with. Too many details to really keep track of. 

“I was wondering if you’d want to meet up for lunch. There’s something...someone...I’d just like to see you.” Serena, usually so confident, so sure of herself, sounds shy as she stumbles over words, and Adrienne can see her as a teenager, twirling the phone cord between her fingers while she talks to a boy.

Adrienne opens up her calendar, mostly empty these days, not hard to find an opening for lunch, but she knows Serena keeps odd hours, knows the life of a surgeon is unpredictable, has heard tell of all her trials and tribulations countless times. Not that she isn’t proud of her daughter, for doing so well for herself. It’s just that she could’ve picked something more stable, more calm. A pediatrician, for god’s sake. 

She dials Serena’s number - it goes straight to voicemail, like she’s turned it off. Adrienne hangs up without leaving a message, never interested in playing phone tag. Serena will call again tomorrow, she always does. A good daughter.

When Serena does call the next day, Adrienne does answer, slides her thumb across the screen, still getting used to the new phone her daughter insisted she buy. “Hi, Serena,” she says, knows she’s speaking too loudly, knows the next words out of Serena’s mouth will be to remind her she doesn’t have to shout. It’s a familiar routine, the dance they do, filling the role of mother and daughter the way they always have.

“Hello,” she says back, and she sounds distracted, like there’s something occupying her attention, her voice a little distant, like she’s holding the phone away from her face. “How’re you today?” There’s a breathless quality to her voice, like she was running to her phone or something.

“I’m fine. Serena, if you’re busy, you don’t need to call me right now,” she says, her voice clipped, tone short, ready to hang up the phone. She’s never wanted to be an afterthought, a burden. 

“No, no, Mum. I’m fine, I’m here. I’m not busy.” Adrienne isn’t sure she believes Serena but lets it go. “Did you listen to my message? Can we meet up for lunch?” 

They make an appointment for Saturday, Serena’s day off work. Adrienne doesn’t ask about Elinor, knows that’s a sore point, that Serena doesn’t see her daughter as much, not even on her days off. She’s said something about Edward’s new wife, but Adrienne can’t quite remember the details. She doesn’t ask about whatever it is Serena wants to talk about either, knows she’d say it over the phone if she wanted to.

“I’ll see you at the weekend, dear,” Adrienne says when she’s ready to be done with the idle conversation. She can’t quite shake the feeling that Serena is preoccupied, like there’s someone in the room with her. 

“See you,” Serena says, and Adrienne could swear she hears a muffled laugh before the line disconnects. 

-

Adrienne is early, she always is. She knows Serena will be early too, it’s a trait the McKinnie women share. Seated at a table in their favorite coffee shop, Adrienne faces the window so she can see when her daughter arrives. It’s not long before she sees her, but she’s not alone, walking with someone. Adrienne thinks they might be holding hands, but the folds of Serena’s coat obscure her view.

She squints at the window, intent on her daughter, watches as she presses a kiss to a blonde woman’s cheek, might even say her lips linger, though Adrienne doesn’t understand why she would. As the blonde walks away, it’s clear they were holding hands, as Serena keeps their fingers together as long as they can still reach each other, and Adrienne can see the shy smile on her face as she turns away from her departing companion, tucking her short hair behind her ear, fiddling with the necklace her father gave her, the one she always wears. Serena’s nervous.

Serena opens the door, the bell above it jingling, announcing her entrance, and Adrienne stands, welcomes her daughter with a hug, pretends she hasn’t seen anything from her vantage point inside the coffee shop. “Good to see you, dear,” she says, settling back into her seat, her hands going around her coffee cup. 

Serena divests herself of her coat and bag, goes up to the counter to order her own drink, and Adrienne knows she’ll be getting two pain au chocolats as well, their favorite pastry. She remembers the first time they went to France together, just a weekend trip when Serena was young, her first time in another country, her eyes wide at the different language, at the beautifully filled pastry shops, their cases stocked with colorful macarons and flaky desserts, and Serena pointed at the one she wanted, her fingers leaving smudges on the glass. Sometimes of late, Adrienne finds herself drifting into her memories, living in them, letting herself sink into them like a hot bath at the end of a long day.

When Serena comes back two plates carefully balanced while she holds a mug of piping hot coffee, Adrienne shakes herself from her reverie, smiles at her beautiful daughter, grown and confident, not the small girl who asked why pain au chocolat was called that, when it didn’t hurt at all. 

“As much as I might like to flatter myself that you’re here just because you missed me, I seem to remember there was something specific you wanted to talk about,” Adrienne says, sipping at her tea once more. 

“Mmm,” Serena says, and her posture tenses, all her nervousness coming to the fore. All Adrienne can think of is the blonde woman in the window, the way Serena’s bright eyes tracked her movement as she walked away, their fingers touching until the moment they couldn’t. “You’ve spent a lot of time encouraging me to go on dates, to meet someone.” Adrienne can’t deny it, it’s true. She never thought Edward was good enough for her daughter, thinks there’s so much more for Serena out there in the world. 

“And who’s the lucky man? Another doctor? Someone else? A grateful patient?” Adrienne can spin a thousand stories in her mind, any number of possibilities, but she can guess the words that will come out of Serena’s mouth next, could say them along with her.

“Um,” Serena says, and Adrienne looks at her over the edge of her coffee cup.

“Don’t say um, darling, it isn’t a word.” Serena straightens at that, her usual response to being corrected, Adrienne knows, has seen it a thousand times before, can never stop the words escaping.

“It isn’t...it isn’t a man,” Serena says, her eyes downcast, her beautiful lashes fluttering slightly against her cheek, and her fingers are once more fiddling with the pendant at the end of her necklace. “It’s Bernie.” 

Up until this moment, Adrienne thought Bernie _was_ a man, a forceful military doctor sent to take over Serena’s ward, a blustering man too cocky for his own good, for all the complaining Serena did when she learned she would have to share her consultant responsibilities. The beautiful blonde flashes in Adrienne’s mind again. _Bernie_. 

Serena looks small and nervous, like the time she had to bring home a poorly-graded book report when she was seven. Adrienne can still see the young girl in front of her, so worried, so desperate for approval. 

“You’re dating a woman?” She arches her eyebrow, knows Serena’s inherited the facial tic. “I suppose it was only a matter of time once you cut off all your hair.” Serena’s hand goes to her head, a subconscious movement, Adrienne knows. They’ve battled about this countless times, how beautiful Serena’s long hair was, how much she misses it. 

Then Serena’s face hardens, just a touch, ever so slightly. “I’m _falling in love_ with a woman,” she says, like she’s had this argument, whether out loud or with herself, Adrienne doesn’t know. “I just thought you should know.” Adrienne’s read stories of children coming out to their parents, how the parent is supposed to react, but all she can do is look at Serena, her mouth slightly open as she lets the information settle in her brain. 

“I suppose it’s good you’ve already had a child,” is what she says eventually, the silence long and deep and almost uncomfortable. Serena’s face shuts off completely, the light dimming in her eyes. She stands, pushes back her chair with a scrape, loud enough it gets people looking, and Adrienne doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to be seen pleading with her daughter either. 

“I’ll see you later,” Serena says through gritted teeth, every inch the petulant teenager who wouldn’t talk to her mother about anything. Adrienne watches her leave, doesn’t know what to say to stop her, just knows her daughter will call tomorrow and perhaps they can sort this all out.

-

There is no phone call, not for an entire week. A week goes by where the only time Adrienne hears Serena’s voice is when she replays her daughter saying, “I’m _falling in love_ with a woman” over and over in her mind, a steady refrain as she tries to decide what to do. She tries to look it up on the internet, has never been very good with computers, a technology that just passed her by. Serena makes it look easy, clicking things and typing away. 

All Adrienne is able to do is get to a website that’s mostly text and says “Lesbian” in bold type at the top. She has to squint her eyes to read anything else, and gets a headache after a minute. She just wishes Serena would call so they could _talk_ about it all. She wonders what Elinor is up to, wonders if Elinor even knows about her mother and her latest proclivities. 

At the end of seven days, when her phone hasn’t rung except for telemarketers and one wrong number, Adrienne takes a taxi to the hospital. She can’t find her car keys, doesn’t know where she left them. She assures the cab driver she’s just going to see someone, that she’s not sick, not in pain, but he still watches her often in the rearview mirror, and Adrienne supposes she’d be nervous as well, if she had to take someone to hospital. 

She walks through the automatic doors, can’t remember where AAU is, what floor, what wing. She finds a map, draws her finger across it until she sees the ward she’s looking for. But then she hears Serena’s laugh, loud and happy, and she turns at the sound, sees her daughter in line at the coffee shop, standing next to a woman, blonde hair, wide mouth that’s laughing too. Adrienne wonders if it’s the same woman from outside the restaurant where she met up with her daughter for coffee. 

Serena has her father’s laugh, Adrienne can hear the echoes of her husband there, equal parts joy and pain. But the look of joy on her face, those gleaming, shining eyes, that’s all Serena, all the goodness in her coming out in her happiness, and Adrienne feels a slight clench around her heart, can’t remember the last time Serena was that happy around her, that carefree. 

Indeed, as she nears the coffee shop, and Serena catches sight of her mother, Adrienne can see the way her body tenses, her mouth snapping shut, becoming a thin line. She smiles, small and quivering, and waves. Serena does nothing, just watches her mother approach. 

“Serena,” she says, “it’s good to see you.” She wants to say that she’s missed their phone calls, missed hearing Serena’s voice, knowing what Serena’s up to, trying to keep track of all the stories she tells. But they’ve never done that, really, never said those words, just kept empty spaces full of meaning in their sentences. “You must be Bernie.” Adrienne turns to the blonde, holds out her hand, sees the smoothly covered look of surprise as they shake. “I’m Adrienne.” 

She sees the pieces fall into place behind Bernie’s eyes, that Bernie now knows it’s Serena’s mother whose hand she’s holding, she sees the furtive slant of her eyes as she looks at Serena, gauging how she feels, sees the way her daughter is standing close to this woman, so close that their shoulders are touching. 

“A pleasure,” Bernie says, and her voice is nothing like Adrienne imagined, rougher, deeper, somehow matching the mess of waves about her face. She’s slightly less kempt than Serena, and Adrienne wonders if that’s part of the attraction. Edward was always messier than Serena too. Perhaps having a type can span genders. She isn’t sure. 

“Mother,” Serena says, her voice clipped, and Adrienne misses the shining light in her daughter’s eyes. “What are you doing here? Are you all right?” 

She tries to be light-hearted, jovial. “I suppose there is always the fear when a family member pops up at your work. Is it a friendly visit or something more sinister?” She chuckles at the rhetorical question but Serena’s face doesn’t crack. “I came to see you. I haven’t heard from you.” 

Bernie is looking down at her shoes, scuffing one slightly against the floor. The line for coffee is moving, and their hodgepodged trio moves with it. Serena stays silent, and Adrienne can see that she’s weighing her options, whether or not to make a scene. She wonders what the gossip mill around here is like, what Serena’s co-workers know about her recent paramour. 

“Let me buy your coffees,” Adrienne offers, when the silence isn’t broken. “And any pastry you like.” She sees the smallest flash in Serena’s eyes, knows how she loves pain au chocolat, and then her gaze hardens once more, but she nods, accepting the peace offering. 

Adrienne turns her attention to Bernie, since her daughter appears to be a wall of silence that shall not be swayed. “I hear you’ve recently returned from working abroad?” She sees Serena’s shoulders tense, and wonders if she’s said the wrong thing, wonders how mentioning her work in Kiev can be a sore subject. 

“Yes,” Bernie says carefully, like she doesn’t want to enter the field of landmines between mother and daughter. “I’ve found I much prefer the weather in England to that of Ukraine.” There’s a faint smile on Serena’s lips, and Adrienne thinks there might be a euphemism hidden in there, feels more gentle curiosity about the relationship between her daughter and this woman than anything else. 

They’re at the front of the queue now, and Serena orders for herself, orders for Bernie too. They step aside together, like a practiced dance, and Adrienne wonders how long it’s been going on, really going on. She slides her card into the machine, pays for their coffees, one for herself, and moves next to Serena. 

It doesn’t take long for their order to be handed over the counter and Adrienne is about to open her mouth to ask if they can sit at a table, but Serena interrupts, aborting any suggestion. “We’ve a busy day, Mother. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll call you later?” Adrienne closes her mouth with a snap, thinks she can hear her teeth clacking together. 

“Tonight,” she says firmly, “You’ll call me tonight.” Serena nods sharply, and walks away. Bernie trails slightly, an almost apologetic look on her face, and she raises her cup of coffee in farewell, but doesn’t say anything. Adrienne sighs, sips at her coffee, winces at the taste, then remembers she ordered tea. She watches Bernie and Serena step onto the elevator, sees the way their heads lean towards each other, the way they stand so close, even though there’s no one around them. She thinks she can even see their hands touching, though it’s hidden slightly in the folds of their coats. 

It’s raining when she steps through the automatic doors but she forgot to bring an umbrella in her purse. And she can’t remember where she parked the car, fusses in her purse for her keys. It’s five minutes before she remembers the cab ride, remembers the driver watching her, waiting for her appendix to explode. It’s another minute before she remembers she left her mobile at home and can’t call for another taxi. 

She goes back inside, makes her way to AAU, takes the same elevator her daughter rode up to her floor moments earlier. She’s greeted by a Scottish doctor, dressed in the light blue scrubs she knows her daughter wears, has heard her complain about them, using language Adrienne knows she didn’t learn at home. He points her to Serena’s office, the door slightly ajar. 

The blinds are open, and Adrienne can see Serena at her desk, though she’s hidden by Bernie - Bernie who is sitting on the edge of the desk and holding Serena’s hand in her lap. Adrienne can’t remember Edward ever being so affectionate in all the times she saw the two of them together. She coughs slightly, then taps on the door, and Bernie immediately slides from the desk, stands, though any attempt at hiding their relationship is ruined by how close she still stands to Serena, how her waist and Serena’s shoulder touch. How both women’s cheeks are flushed at being caught. 

“I’m sorry,” she starts, “but I need to use your phone. I took a taxi over, don’t have my mobile to call for another one.” Serena sighs, but slides her desk phone to where Adrienne can reach it, gestures at the visitor’s chair. Adrienne puts her hand out, rests it against the handset, doesn’t pick it up, not yet. “I’m sorry about - about other things too.” It’s awkward, she’s not prone to apologizing, not for anything. 

“What are you sorry for?” Serena looks at her mother, and Adrienne can only think how similar they are, how alike. 

“I’m happy for you - and for Bernie,” Adrienne says, evading the words she doesn’t know how to say yet. “I’m happy that you’re happy.” She sees Bernie’s cheeks flush even more pink, and she looks down at her feet again, looks askance at Serena, and Adrienne can see the twitch of her fingers, wonders if she might normally reach out and grasp Serena’s shoulder. 

“We are happy,” Serena says firmly, and she does reach up to take Bernie’s hand, and there’s a moment of silent communication between the two women as they look up at each other. Adrienne feels like she’s intruding, like she’s caught them doing something almost illicit. It feels private and sacred, and like it’s lasting hours. The attraction between them is practically palpable. 

“I might not have reacted to the news as you might’ve wished,” Adrienne says, carefully selecting each word. “But I’ve known you for fifty years, and it wasn’t something I was prepared to hear. Would you spring a cancer diagnosis on a patient without warning?” 

“Falling in love with a woman is hardly the same as cancer,” Serena says, and Adrienne sees the way Bernie squeezes their joined hands, so subtle, but so meaningful. 

“I didn’t mean to imply -” Serena holds up a hand, stopping Adrienne, and she closes her mouth, isn’t quite sure how she planned to finish that sentence anyway. 

“Bernie and I will come round for dinner on Friday. And I will call you tonight. But we are at work, and the red phone could ring at any second.” It’s the McKinnie way, halting uncomfortable discussions until both parties can figure out what it is they want to say, how they want to say it. “Now you can call for a cab.” 

Serena looks up the number for her on the computer and Adrienne dials it with careful fingers, noting how Bernie never leaves Serena’s side, how they’re a united front. There’s apparently a taxi already in the neighborhood, so Adrienne has no choice but to leave Serena’s office and go back downstairs to wait the few minutes until it arrives. She stops, at the nurse’s station, to look back at her daughter’s office. She sees Bernie lean down over Serena’s chair, slow, her body folding in half so she can gently place her lips against Serena’s. She sees the way her daughter lifts in her chair, arches her back, can see her practically relax into the kiss. And then it’s over, and Bernie moves to the other side of the desk, to her own computer, and it’s business as usual, though Adrienne sees their eyes meet, can imagine the sparkle emanating from Serena, just thinks again how different it all is from when she and Edward were together. 

“Are they always like this?” Adrienne asks to the same Scottish fellow who helped her before, and he smiles, laughs a little, cranes his neck over his shoulder. 

“Yeah,” he says, “even before they knew they were in love.” 

And there it is, clear as day. They’re in love, and it hits Adrienne differently, not in the gut this time, but in her chest. Not falling in love, not working towards it, they’re already there. She looks at Serena’s office once more, and they’re still staring, still smiling. She wonders how they get any work done at all.


	11. bewitching the mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> serena and bernie go to hogwarts!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry i am very bad at thanking people for comments right now, but i love them all very much and am appreciative! thank you thank you!

Serena McKinnie knows who Bernie Wolfe is, sees her across the Great Hall at meals, watches her fly around the Quidditch Pitch, swinging her Beater’s bat with wild abandon. She knows that Bernie usually sits with the other Hufflepuffs in shared lessons, knows that Bernie likes pranks and has set off more than her fair share of dungbombs in Filch’s office. She heard that Bernie took a group of second-years into the Forbidden Forest last year, but it was just because there was supposed to be a rare flowering of night phlox and she wanted to gather some for Professor Sprout. 

Serena knows these endless facts about Bernie, feels like she’s a catalog of information about her, finds her eyes going to Bernie as she roams the hallways of Hogwarts, her dandelion blonde hair always catching the light, beautiful and tall, a flame to Serena’s moth, and she knows she can’t resist.

They’ve had three conversations in their seven years at Hogwarts. The first was on the night of the Sorting, when they ended up standing next to each other, waiting for their name to be called. Bernie told Serena she didn’t care what house she was sorted into, had the wide-eyed look of a Muggle still getting used to the idea of magic. Serena said she would be sorted into Slytherin, that was just her family’s lineage, and Bernie nodded like she understood. 

The second time they spoke, Bernie helped Serena pick up her dropped books, quills and parchment scattered all over the floor from careening around a corner too quickly. "Sorry," Serena muttered, just thirteen years old and clumsy, not used to the way her body was changing, not used to the way it moved.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Bernie said, cheerfully picking things up and pushing them into Serena's bookbag, paying no attention to crumpling papers or quills poking into books. As she handed Serena back the last book, she paused. "What're you doing reading Flesh-Eating Trees of The World?"

"Just a - just a passing interest, I suppose?" Serena answered, unexpectedly finding herself in conversation with the famous Bernie Wolfe, unprepared, unable to find things to say. Even at thirteen, she knew she wanted to impress this girl, even if she didn't know why.

At sixteen, they had their third conversation, and Serena knew why it was she wanted to make an impression on Bernie, why it was that she couldn't stop thinking about her, why it was that she imagined what her blonde hair felt like. Which is why, when she had to take away house points from Hufflepuff because Bernie turned one corridor into an aviary while practicing her tea towel to toucan spell, she couldn't get through it without blushing and stuttering, and tried to run away as quickly as possible. 

But Bernie caught her hand, stopping her, and Serena stared down at their joined fingers, then looked up at Bernie and her impossible messy fringe. "No worries, McKinnie," she said, smiling bright even in the face of fifteen lost points, "I know you have to do it as Prefect." 

Serena can remember the way her hand felt, can remember the flush in her cheeks, can remember her sheepish goodbye, her hasty retreat. 

And now she's sitting next to Bernie Wolfe in NEWT potions, paired up for the entire year, wondering if Professor Snape has it out for her, is somehow trying to punish his illustrious Head Girl, the pride of Slytherin House, for some unknown wrong.

"Seven years and we've never sat together in class," Bernie says, taking out her quill and parchment, spilling ink in small splotches, her fingers stained too. Serena just nods, can't think of a thing to say. 

"I know you're a whiz at potions, I only hope I can pull my weight." It strikes Serena that Bernie is trying to be friends, and that is what hits her first, and then second, she realizes that Bernie knows this fact about her, wonders what else Bernie knows, wonders if maybe, just maybe, there's the slightest chance that Bernie's been watching her too. 

"I hardly think you'd be in NEWT Potions if you couldn't keep up," Serena says, loftier than she means, but she cushions it with a smile. Bernie's thin lips widen and her face splits into a grin, and without realizing it, they've had their fourth conversation.

Potions always was Serena's favorite subject, but she finds she looks forward to it even more, wishes she had class more than twice a week. 

Bernie is good at Potions, its undeniable. But she isn't good in the way Serena is, she doesn't follow the letter of their textbook. She chops ingredients a little haphazardly, she dumps things into the cauldron without care for splashing. She tries new things, she sticks her wand into the liquid for stirring, switching directions at will. Serena sees Professor Snape watching them sometimes, thinks there's almost a hint of pride in his gaze as Bernie goes avant garde and brings Serena along with. 

She learns more with Bernie at her side, and it is invigorating, eye-opening, wonderful. There's a day when Bernie comes up behind her and reaches around, guides her arm into a different stirring position, their bare hands touching, and Serena can feel Bernie's breath tickling the back of her neck, where short hairs have curled from the heat of the lab, the rest of her hair pulled back, away from her face. Serena replays the sensation in her mind for weeks. 

Sitting together in Potions opens the floodgates, and suddenly Bernie is everywhere in her life. Serena gets sharp looks from her fellow Slytherins for spending time with a Hufflepuff, and a Muggle no less, but she dismisses them with a sniff, says that what she looks for in a friend is loyalty, not cunning. 

Bernie sits with Serena in the library, they share notes and books, and have whispered conversations under the watchful eye of Madam Pince, ready to shush them at any turn. Serena finds that she likes to make Bernie laugh, really laugh, likes it when she lets loose that cackle like a fwooper's call. More than once, the batlike librarian has swooped down on them, threatening to ban them from the library.

As Christmas holidays approach, Serena thinks about buying a present for Bernie, doesn't know what she might want, what she might need. She spends a Saturday trip in Hogsmeade wandering the shops to see what she might find, thankful Bernie has Quidditch practice. The last time they walked around the small wizarding town, Bernie grasped Serena's hand to get her attention, to point out the enchanted snowmen in the town square, and she hadn't let go. Serena didn't think she breathed for the rest of the day, too focused on the way their palms felt pressed together.

She ends up in Broomhilda's Quidditch Supplies, buys Bernie a small, neat figurine of a beater, magicked to fly around above her palm. She buys a card in Scrivenshafts and worries about what to write.

After dithering about it for far too long, Serena just writes: 

_Dear Bernie -_

_I hope you have a very happy Christmas. You’ve made this year quite a good one for me, and I can’t wait to “beat” our NEWTs together._

_Yours,_

_Serena_

She stares at the way it looks, to write “yours” so boldly, knows what she means by it, knows how it could be taken, just wonders what Bernie will see in it. Serena wraps it carefully, uses her own two hands and no magic, just sparkling silver paper and a red ribbon that she curls at the ends. Before she can stop herself, she slips the card under the bow and goes in search of her friend. 

Bernie is in the library, the cold sunlight filtering in through the tall windows, one shaft of light hitting the table where they always sit, dust motes floating through it. Serena’s breath catches in her throat because it looks more magical than anything else she’s seen in all her years at Hogwarts. 

She gathers her courage and walks over, like it’s any other day, like there’s nothing else on her mind except how to combine a sopophorous bean into a potion for remembering. Bernie looks up at her footsteps, beams in that way that makes Serena feel like the whole world is just the two of them. She can’t stop the blush from covering her cheeks. 

“This is for you,” she says bluntly, setting the small box on the table, sliding it in Bernie’s direction. “Happy Christmas.” Bernie’s face is jubilant as she picks it up, moves as if to shake it, but Serena stills her hand. “I wouldn’t, if I were you,” she says, thinking of the small Beater in the box, doesn’t know what happens to a tiny enchanted figurine when they’re shaken up and down. 

Bernie winks at that, sets it down carefully and rummages in her own bag, pulls out something wrapped clumsily in brown paper, held together with just a few pieces of spellotape. “I got you something too!” She is proud of herself, Serena can tell. She holds the package in her hands, knows it’s something soft, can feel that it’s fabric through the packaging. They are stationary for a long moment, each with a present in front of them, and Serena finds herself fidgeting, twisting her feet slightly. “Well, I just came to - to give you that,” she says. 

Before she can leave, Bernie stands and envelops her in a hug, her lanky arms wrapping around Serena’s shoulders, and she smells of the library and of damp earth, a comforting melange of scents that’s just Bernie. Serena breathes in deep, her arms coming up around Bernie’s back and she wonders what Bernie smells, with her face pressed against Serena’s hair. “Happy Christmas,” Bernie whispers, and squeezes tight, so tight, then lets go, returns to her books, her cheeks only slightly flushed.

Serena doesn’t open the package until she’s sitting on her bed, tucked away in the Head Girl’s dormitory, private and alone. The paper comes off easily, and inside is a scarf, warm and cozy, soft to the touch. It looks like any school scarf, but instead of one house color, it’s Slytherin green woven together with Hufflepuff yellow, the colors nestled close together, and Serena flashes back to the way their hands clasped, their fingers interlacing. Two houses coming together. 

She wears the scarf on the Hogwarts Express, wears it all through her Christmas holidays and doesn’t tell her mother where it came from. 

-

Hogwarts is cold in the winter months, students teaching their friends how to perform warming spells as the wind sneaks into the cracks and crannies of the drafty castle. Serena likes bending over the cauldron in Potions, the fire below it almost cheery as flames lick the brass sides. She drinks hot cocoa in the Great Hall and is surprised when Bernie slides in next to her during their free periods not spent in the library. 

When she walks into Potions class during the last week of January, she’s struck with such a strong smell of Bernie that she immediately whips her head around, thinking perhaps she’s just come into the room behind her. But Bernie hasn’t arrived yet, is usually hightailing it into the room just as Professor Snape closes the door, so Serena isn’t quite sure where the scent is coming from, that earthy smell of the greenhouses mixed with books and...and something else. Serena’s never quite been able to identify it, though the wheels of her mind spin endlessly as she tries to recall.

Sure enough, Professor Snape is making his way to the door of the Potions laboratory just as Bernie slides in, impervious to his supercilious gaze. She smiles at Serena, a bump of their shoulders. “You smell nice,” she says in a low whisper, and Serena flushes. 

“Amortentia,” Professor Snape intones, interrupting any further conversation. He gestures to the cauldron bubbling at the head of the classroom,and Serena’s cheeks pink up as she realizes what the smell is, what it means. “Who can tell me the use for this potion?” He looks directly at Serena, like he knows that she’s got the answer. 

“A love potion,” she says meekly, too afraid to look at Bernie. “Probably the most dangerous one. Instead of love, it creates feelings of obsession if ingested.” She looks back at Professor Snape, his glittering black eyes knowing far more than he’s telling.

“How can this potion be identified by smell alone?” he asks, not taking his gaze from Serena’s face and she knows she’s being tested, that her Head of House has some strong feelings about mingling with Muggles, though she thinks he might hate it more than she’s become fast friends with a Hufflepuff. 

“It’s tricky, but it has a different smell for every person. It smells of the thing that attracts someone the most.” She holds her breath, half-afraid he’ll ask what she smells in Amortentia, but he doesn’t, satisfied with her performance, offers a meager five points to Slytherin as a reward. Serena still can’t find it in her to look at Bernie, just ducks her head back down and scratches her quill against parchment, taking notes as Professor Snape discusses love potions. 

They aren’t allowed to actually brew any of the potions that get discussed, and Serena finds herself grateful for that, is glad of a lesson where all they do is discuss potion theories and uses, where she has an excuse to not look at Bernie, sitting to her left, where she can ignore the nudges and the toe taps, where she doesn’t have to see Bernie’s lovely face flush from brewing. 

“All right, Serena?” Bernie asks as class ends and Serena’s shoving things into her bag with less care than usual. Her tone is casual, but when Serena turns to look at her, she can see the worry on Bernie’s features, the creases in her forehead, the slight downturn to her mouth. 

She just nods and they stare at each other for a long moment. Because she doesn’t want this chasm, this awkwardness, Serena forces a smile onto her face and asks Bernie what she thinks their odds are in the Quidditch match against Ravenclaw this weekend. 

“We’ll get them for sure,” Bernie boasts. “And you’ll be cheering me on?” The casual tone is back, the worry replaced by hope, and all Serena can do is say yes, knows she’ll wrap the scarf around her neck and sit in the stands, watching Bernie fly around the pitch, wincing every time a bludger gets too close. She can just imagine Bernie being reckless, taking a ball straight on, that long thin nose turning into a crooked line down the center of her face. But watching is better than not, so she goes to every Hufflepuff match and has to sit on her hands to stop from hiding her eyes. 

When they part ways. Serena to her dormitory and Bernie to a meeting of the Gobstones club, Serena leans in and busses her face against Bernie’s, before she can stop herself. It happens without thinking, and Bernie doesn’t pull away, doesn’t recoil. Serena closes her eyes in mortification as Bernie murmurs a goodbye, and all she’s left with the lingering scent of Bernie Wolfe, the same smell that filtered up from the cauldron of Amortentia. 

-

Two weeks later, it’s Valentine’s Day and the whole of Hogwarts is pink and white and red and Serena finds herself pulling first years apart in the rosebushes, splitting up snogging couples in the hallways, as if the date itself is enough of an aphrodisiac. She thinks there’s a chance she’s taking out some nervous energy on the younger students, nervous because Bernie Wolfe asked if Serena would come to Hogsmeade with her, if they could go to the little tea shop together. 

Serena tells herself Bernie doesn’t know the date, that Bernie just wants a cuppa. She pulls on her nicest sweater, warm stockings underneath her school skirt, and wraps the green and yellow scarf around her neck. If she spends more time on her hair, on a spell for fluttery eyelashes and rose-red lips, she knows she’ll never tell. 

Bernie is waiting in the entrance way, chewing her lip in an endearing way, and Serena wonders if she’s nervous too, wonders if neither of them really knows what’s going on. But Bernie reaches for Serena’s hand and Serena has to stop herself from pulling away, from ending anything before it even starts. 

Their fingers interlace easily, like they have every time before. Bernie’s hand is warm, not sweaty. It fits nicely, right against Serena’s. “All right?” she asks, hazarding a look from under her fringe and Serena knows by now it’s as much a fashion decision as it is a way to hide her expressions. 

She nods, afraid almost to speak and break a spell that’s been cast, one that lets her have a thing she’s dreamt about even though she’s awake. 

Madam Puddifoot’s is terrible. It smells like a vat of perfume and the tea is sickly sweet. Serena can see the regret on Bernie’s face as soon as they sit down, wants to find a way to tell her they don’t have to stay without making it seem like she wants to be done with the - with whatever this is. 

“We could just have a walk around town?” she suggests gently, and sees the relief writ large on Bernie’s face. They leave without even ordering, and Serena is the one to grab Bernie’s hand this time, to keep her close, to let her know it’s both of them, together. 

Serena thinks she could spend every day like this, meandering around anywhere with Bernie’s hand held in her own. She talks about wanting to go into Potions research, but how she doesn’t want to do it for the Ministry. Bernie wants to be an Auror, has worked diligently for her entire Hogwarts career to maintain the scores she needs, and Serena knows how much time Bernie spends in the library even when she’s not there. 

Serena wonders if Bernie remembers the first time she spoke, asks aloud if she remembers that night. Some part of her hopes Bernie’s wanted this as long as she has. “I remember you were so proud to be sorted into Slytherin, just like your mother wanted,” Bernie says. “You sat so tall on the stool. All I could think when I was sat there was that my mother would be telling me not to slouch.” Serena laughs, loud enough to get looks, but she sees the small smile Bernie gives her and doesn’t feel any shame. 

Bernie kisses her goodbye on the steps of Hogwarts, after all the younger students have filtered inside, when it’s just the two of them left. She leans in and presses their lips together, a warm spark on a cold day. She steps back quickly, her eyes full of fear, like she’s worried she’s overstepped, but Serena just grasps the edges of her coat and pulls her back in, slots their lips together, and slips her tongue into Bernie’s mouth. 

“See you in the library later?” she asks when they part, breath curling into the air, eyes sparkling, and Bernie nods, an unconscious hand drifting to her pinked lips. She disappears inside and Serena takes another moment to stand outside, alone in the snow. She always loved the cold. 

-

Now that she’s kissed Bernie, it’s all she wants to do. Serena has to stop herself from leaning across the table in the library, from detouring at meals to stop by the Hufflepuff table. She feels satisfaction when she can gently nudge Bernie’s hand with her own as they sit on their shared bench in Potions. She wills herself to keep from leaning against Bernie as they prepare ingredients, as they stir their cauldron. But their eyes meet over the bubbling liquid, over the steam rising in curls, and Serena can’t contain her smile.

They’re in the library on Friday night, late enough that they’re alone, the rest of the school under a silent and unspoken agreement to enjoy the weekend, to be free from their studies. Bernie won’t stop playing footsie with Serena, won’t stop stretching her long legs out to find Serena’s toes. Hiding laughs and masking giggles, they work together, Bernie sliding notes across the table and Serena pointing out things in the textbook. 

“Come with me,” Bernie whispers on a breath after they work in silence for a stretch. She stands, quietly pushing her chair back, holding out her hand. And like every time before, every time after, Serena takes the outstretched fingers and lets Bernie lead the way. 

She weaves through tables and shelves, all the way to the Restricted Section, says the password in a low tone that makes a shudder go all the way up Serena’s spine. The curtain slides away, letting them enter. Before it even drops back down, Bernie has Serena pushed up against the bookshelves, her whole body plastered to Serena’s front, kissing her deeply, long, their hands still twined together. 

“This is,” she says between kisses, “all I’ve been able to think about today.” She moves to Serena’s neck, her mouth wet, and Serena thinks she might be leaving behind a mark, can’t find it in her to care, not when she’s enjoying it so much, not when she’s feeling the thrill of pleasure pooling in her belly. She leans her head back against the books, not caring at the sounds they make, the creaking and groaning of deeply magical tomes, unused to their peace and quiet being disturbed in this way. 

As Bernie’s mouth moves against Serena’s collar bone, one hand pulling aside Serena’s sweater, Madam Pince appears, a pinched specter in front of them, her hair wild, her voice a whispered scream as she takes away fifty housepoints apiece, as she threatens to have Serena’s Head Girl badge revoked. 

Serena finds, instead of being chastened, that laughter is threatening to explode from her mouth and she presses her lips together, hopes her flushed cheeks look like embarrassment rather than bottled up glee. The librarian leaves in a huff and a warning for them to follow in sharp order. 

Bernie looks disheveled, her school tie askew, slightly untied, and Serena can’t quite remember doing that, but knows she must have. Her lips are pink and her cheeks are shiny, but her eyes are happy, devilishly so. “I suppose it’s better she walked in now, rather than in five minutes time. Might’ve gotten a sight of a bit of badger if you know what I mean,” Bernie says, and the laugh that Serena’s kept at bay finally explodes, loud cheer bouncing off the walls of the Restricted Section, a painting of Silas the Sonorous lecturing them for the noise. 

Serena grasps Bernie’s hand and pulls her along, doesn’t even bother to stop by their study table as she performs a quick _accio_ for their supplies, quills and parchment and books hurtling towards them as they move out of the library. Serena knows she won’t be able to stop laughing, knows she doesn’t want to lose Slytherin any more points for the night. 

“Something to cross of the old cauldron list,” Bernie says when they’ve stopped at the top of the great staircase, panting slightly. “Always wanted to kiss someone in the library.” 

“Someone?” Serena asks with an arched brow and tone. 

“Originally it was anyone, but lately,” Bernie looks sheepish, “lately, it’s just been you.” Her cheeks flush more at that than at the scolding from Madam Pince and Serena thinks she might just love Bernie for that. How could she think there’s any embarrassment in wanting each other? How could there be any embarrassment in something so right it feels as if it was brought about by a magic more powerful than any they learned at Hogwarts?

-

NEWTs are terrible and terrifying and Serena has no sense of how she did. Bernie has more confidence that Serena did well than in her own performance and seems to glean a sense of calm in comforting Serena and reassuring her that she did well. Serena finds that, as she nears the end of her school career, she cares less than she once might have. She only needs a good score in Potions, though Bernie will tell her she’s gotten no less than an E in every subject she sat. 

Instead of worrying about grades and exams, Serena drags Bernie out to the lake, where the Giant Squid waves with delicate tentacles, where a breeze blows about their hair, the smell of algae and water tickling their nostrils. Bernie lays with her head in Serena’s lap, lets Serena run her fingers through those blonde locks, taming them only momentarily, though Serena’s whispered many times into Bernie’s ear how much she likes the mess of it all. 

“We’ve made it,” she says softly, leaning back on her palms, tipping her face up to the sun, just peeking through the clouds dotting the bright blue sky. She closes her eyes and feels the warmth on her skin, the warmth from Bernie below her. If she quiets her breath, she can hear soft hooting from the Owlery, Madam Hooch’s whistle from the Quidditch pitch, Bernie’s even breathing from her lap, the sounds of Hogwarts a gentle symphony to her ears. 

It’s a home to her, this school, this place. And it gave her something too, far more than schooling or spells. It gave her Bernie. She tilts her head down to look at the face of the woman in her lap, eyes closed, thin lashes fanned against her lightly freckled cheeks. Bernie blinks once, twice, squinting up at Serena, a slow smile spreading across her face. “What are you thinking?” she asks, her voice husky and quiet. 

“How lucky we are,” she says, and then a thought occurs to her, a question she never asked. “What does Amortentia smell like to you?” 

Bernie blushes, deep red, but doesn’t look away. “Like your shampoo. And the potions laboratory.” There’s something else, Serena can tell Bernie isn’t saying, but won’t make her. “What about you?” 

Serena beams down at Bernie, the easiest question she’s been asked in weeks, knows she’ll be getting an Outstanding on this particular quiz. “It smells like you.”


End file.
